


Starless Night

by Cassidy_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Hogwarts Era, Mention of attempted suicide, Necromancy, Post-Hogwarts, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Time Travel, soul swap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 58,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassidy_Black/pseuds/Cassidy_Black
Summary: Hermione was hit in Hogsmeade when trying to break into Hogwarts before the final battle. She blacked out and woke up in the body of Hermione Starr, niece of Graham Rosier and descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw, who almost died in 1944 thanks to Tom Riddle.
Relationships: Alphard Black/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 257
Kudos: 495





	1. Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> Excited to try a long fic! 
> 
> As tagged, Hermione will have a relationship with Alphard Black, but Tomione is end game.
> 
> I have no fixed update schedule but I’m writing whenever I can. Any interaction or feedback are much appreciated. :P
> 
> Disclaimer: I write for fun and I own nothing.
> 
> Trigger warning: mention of ATTEMPTED SUICIDE in Chapter 1.

_"There, out in the darkness_   
_A fugitive running_   
_Fallen from God_   
_Fallen from Grace"_

_\- Stars, Les Misérables musical_

* * *

“You sick bastard!”

Hermione woke up to the roar of a hefty man whose square, harsh face she had never seen before. A house-elf, scrawny, bitter and spooked, stood next to her bed in a ragged pillow case, holding a silver tray. She was shaking like a leave in the gushing wind, her eyes the size of light bulbs. She was staring at the fitful man in absolute terror.

“Please, be reasonable,” said a weary, strained voice. “The girl's _dead_. You have to bury her. You can’t keep her in this room forever -”

“THIS IS MY BLOODY HOUSE AND I SHALL DO AS I WISH!” The roaring shook the water jug and glass in the house-elf’s tray; she swayed on her heels. If possible, she was shaking more violently than before.

“Are you saying you’re going to stop the funeral?” The other man raised his voice.

“Yes!”

“Do you even hear yourself, Rosier? You are raving mad!”

_Funeral? Rosier?_

Hermione opened her eyes wider and was hit immediately by a huge wave of disorientation. She was lying flat on her back with both hands clasped in front of her chest; she was in a soft white dress in a large four-post bed with lavish blue curtains. Her hair, which was still thick and richly brown, ran down her shoulders and pooled around. Merlin’s sake. Since when her hair became this long? She remembered getting knocked out in the battle. Was she in a coma for ages?

She licked her dry lips and tried to prop herself up. She attempted to speak but all she managed to utter was a hoarse croak. The two men, who were barking at each other at the foot of her bed, stopped dead and gawped at her with bulging eyes and dropped jaws. For a moment Hermione thought they were petrified.

“Wut? H...how?” The thinner man in light green robes stuttered, “are you…what are you?”

Hermione stared at him in puzzle. “Er,” she said. “A person, I suppose?”

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh-” to Hermione’s shock, the man let out a horrified wail and scrambled out of the room, slamming the door close with an earth-shaking bang.

The house-elf stared at her with open mouth and wide eyes, stepped back and slid to the floor weakly. “MMMMMMMMMMaster,” she quivered in a hitched voice, pointing a finger at Hermione. “Mistress's bbbbbbbbbback to life!”

_Mistress?_

“Are you really awake, my dear girl?” The stout, large man reached out a hand to her melodramatically and said in a trembling voice, “did Merlin really answer my threats and send you back to me?”

Having absolutely zero clue what the hell was happening, Hermione fought off her dizziness and looked around, taking in the view in the room. It was a large, deep, luxurious room decorated with blue tapestries, bronze-framed paintings and thick carpets. The furnitures were all in the same set. They looked old-fashioned and very expensive. The dark, heavy velvet curtains were pulled to the side, revealing a misty, bleak wintry landscape out of the mullioned windows.

A wave of helplessness hit her in the pit of her stomach. She bit her lip and tried to think. And in the next few seconds, she had decided to follow her survival instinct in an unfamiliar and possibly hostile environment - shut up and observe.

She fell back into the pillows and closed her eyes in exhaustion.

***

It was mayhem.

In the next few hours, at least two dozen people bustled in and out of her room and filled her ears with gasps, hysterical cries and screams. Hermione had wisely chosen not to speak to anybody. Judging from the reactions of everybody, she was, in fact, quite dead.

At first Hermione thought it must be some sort of joke. It felt too bizarre as if she had stepped into an empty step on the stairs and tumbled down an endless hole of a series of vivid nightmares. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

Were these people period actors? They were dressed in old-fashioned ways. Their robes had metal clasps in front of the chest which seemed extravagant and unnecessary. The women were dressed in blouse and skirts and stockings. And the way they talk…it just seemed surreal. As if they were from a different time...

_Damn._

A different time?

Hermione’s eyes snapped open and her breaths quickened. Fear coiled inside of her and gripped her heart like a cold iron claw. She tried her best to stay together. But still, she could feel a legit panic attack was on the way. She seized the bed sheet underneath her. It was silk. It felt cold in her sweaty palms.

But how was it possible? There was a dull pang in the back of her head and she tried to focus. What was the last thing she remember? Oh yes. She was caught in a particular nasty battle with the Death Eaters in Hogsmeade when she tried to break into Hogwarts with Harry and Ron. They did not know there was a curfew and triggered the alarm the second they apparated on the street. She was separated with Harry and Ron. God! She did not even know where did they ended up with. All she knew was that she was hit in the face by something white and hot, and the next second she was here.

She searched every inch of her brains, trying to scrape out an explanation to rationalize what was going on. But she couldn’t. With all of her existing knowledge in magic, she couldn’t possibly explain what in heaven’s name could cause this soul replacement or whatever shit it was supposed to be - and _time travel,_ possibly. She did not know even know what year it was, but it sure as hell did not look like the time she was familiar with.

She was fed water and potions and some bread. Night had fallen. The room finally quieted down.

“Hermione, dear?” Someone held her hands. She felt the mattress sunk when the large man sat down, “how are you feeling?”

She looked up and saw a concerned face of a middle-aged man. He had a square jaw, dark and stern features, furrowed brows that looked like a vulture.

Hermione decided to make a bold move.

“Father?” She said tentatively.

There was a moment of silence in the room. The man froze. There was a gasp from the door and a servant girl dropped a cup. Hermione looked up, and saw a thin and pasty woman. She was in dark crimson robes and looked at Hermione sharply. Her face was beautiful but icy. She scoffed. Something in her dark eyes made Hermione shudder.

“No,” said the man, bending over to feel her forehead, “poor child, aren't you confused. It's Uncle Graham, remember?”

Bugger, she felt her stomach gave a scared lurch. That was a stupid try. 

“Yes,” she said, startled and dazed.

“Have some rest,” said Graham Rosier, uncle of the girl this body belonged to. “We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

He kissed her on the cheek and left.

The woman left with him. The hems of her robes swept across the marble floor and disappeared behind the heavy oak doors. The sharp clicks of her heels receded. Hermione was left alone with a house-elf, who was watching her with large, shining eyes.

“Hello,” said Hermione kindly.

“Mistress Starr,” squeaked the house-elf. “Healer Isowyre says you is to sleep.”

“Er,” Hermione said with a grimace, feeling a headache. “Starr?”

She thought this body she was in was supposed to be a Rosier.

“Yes,” said the house-elf, baffled.

"Your name is?”

“Mistress Starr do not remember Twinkle?”

“Yes. Right, of course I do,” Hermione cleared her throat. “I feel dizzy that’s all.”

“Twinkle understand. Mistress suffered a violent de - illness. Healer Isowyre says memory loss could be a side effect from the Draught of the Living Death -”

Hermione’s face contorted, " _What?"_

"A full cauldron of it, Mistress. You drank it all." 

Hermione's jaw dropped. For the sake of Morgana's arse! A full freaking cauldron of the living death potion?! Of course she was dying!

Now it made sense why she was feeling like shit. Was Hermione Starr out of her bloody mind? Or was she -

“Was I murdered?” Hermione’s lips quivered when she asked with trepidation.

Twinkle stared at her, shaking her head.

“No, Mistress, you is not murdered.” She said shrilly, confused and scared. “You don’t remember? You...you killed yourself.”

Hermione felt a horrible sinking sensation. Her blood ran icy cold. She tried to speak again but her voice was trembling uncontrollably.

_Pull yourself together, Hermione. You’ve got to pull yourself together. Calm the fuck down._

She looked around in her room again. This Hermione Starr was related to the Rosiers, one of the richest pureblood families in wizarding Britain. Based on her uncle’s reaction and all the fuss in the house before, she was loved and well-treated. What could trouble her so much to the level of suicide? Hermione dreaded to think about it. The Draught of the Living Death was no mercy kill. It was torture. It would cause the most excruciating, violent death.

“You is upset about a boy in Hogwarts, Mistress Starr,” said the house-elf shakily. "You tell Twinkle that he toys with your heart." 

Oh damn it. Hermione groaned inwards and cursed silently. Why would any woman inflict such pain and misery to herself because of _a guy_? Seriously?

She wanted to be rid of this body so bad and be herself. But - a chill ran down her spine and her blood ran cold again. Where was Hermione Granger now? Was she alive or dead in the year of 1998? Had she simply disappeared? Or did she drop dead?

She was on the brink of a full break down at the thought that she might be trapped here forever.

“Twinkle,” she fumed from gritted teeth. “What’s his name? The one that made me wish to die?”

“Master says Twinkle is not to bring up his name in this house,” said the house-elf in fear.

“Tell me,” Hermione pleaded. 

Twinkle let out a whimper.

“I won’t breathe a word,” Hermione promised. “Nobody is going to know that you told me.”

“It's…” said Twinkle in a low hiss, her eyes widened and full of terror. “His name is Riddle, Mistress. Tom Riddle.”

Hermione’s eyes widened; she screamed inside.

 _Tom Fucking Riddle_. _Isn't this just keeping getting better and better?_

 _I_ _'m so massively, miraculously and spectacularly fucked. If you'll excuse me, I am going to panic now!_

 _No,_ said her remaining good senses. _Calm the fuck down. Confirm what year you're in. Use your brain._

Moonlight fell into the windows, shrouding an ethereal veil of silver on the large wardrobes and dressers with bronze claws. They casted eerie shadows on the floor and the walls like phantoms and wraths. She looked to the other side of her bed. Her eyes fell on a mirror. A face, ghastly ashen and frail, appeared in the dark, gleaming glass. Wavy, lengthy brown hair heaped around her neck and dropped off her shoulders like a mass of cloud. Hermione Starr had the same features with Hermione Granger - a heart-shaped face, large brown eyes, delicately shaped nose and mouth. But it did not _feel_ like her. There was no warmth, strength or a shred of happiness in her eyes. That girl in the mirror was sickly, desperate, terrified to the core.

She looked dead. She should have stayed dead.

“Do Mistress want anything else?” Squeaked the house-elf.

“I want a calendar, please,” said Hermione bitterly.

Twinkle brought her a calendar. Hermione took it, her fingers too weak to hold it steady. She leaned into the dim candle light, still holding on to the last bit of hope in her heart that it could all just be a laughable mistake until her eyes found the month and year printed in bold black letters - 

_January, 1944._

She threw herself back to bed and let the waves of despair devour her. 


	2. Alphard

Heavy frost had fallen on the hard grounds of Rosier Park. Hermione sat in a large, cozy windowsill with a book in hand, blankets on her lap and soft cushions around her, looking out of the misty windows in a daze.

She had bathed and dined well in the past three days. Some colour had returned to her cheeks. She felt that her body was slowly reviving, if not thriving. Her dark brown hair, tied with blue velvet ribbons in the back, ran down her shoulders like a cascade. She was not comfortable in these ridiculously tight clothes she was wearing - a white laced cotton blouse, and a high-waist long blue skirt which was choking her on the stomach right now.

Most of the time she did not need to interact with the people in this house, thankfully. But occasionally, such as this morning, she was obliged to make a presence in the drawing room after having her own patient’s breakfast up in her room, and to “humour the guests”, in Graham Rosier’s words. She was still confused who she was supposed to humour.

A manservant opened the large ivory double doors, and in came the Rosiers - Graham Rosier, his wife Agrippa Rosier, their thirteen-year-old son Felix and twenty-year-old daughter Druella. Except Graham, who smiled and came towards Hermione’s side, nobody else greeted Hermione or even acknowledged her. Druella had that icy, haughty air in resemblance to her mother. And Felix, skinny as a Bowtruckle, seemed too afraid to make eye contact with Hermione.

“You shouldn’t sit next to the window,” said Graham reproachfully. “You might catch a cold.”

The first answer that came to Hermione’s head was an impatient retort “I won’t die from a cold”, but she did not say it out loud. Instead, she lowered her eyes, faking a demure manner, and said softly after a pause, “I wanted to see the view, Uncle.”

She had been quite slow in answering people in the past few days. Usually it took her a few seconds to come up with a safe and vague answer that did not need to include any specifics. And it seemed to have worked so far. Nobody suspected her. She had come to the conclusion that Hermione Starr was not a very quick-witted or high-spirited girl.

She had to survive Rosier Park. She had to make it to Hogwarts so that she could seek help from the only person she could potentially trust in this far, strange world - Albus Dumbledore.

“Rotten weather,” commented Graham, looking out of the window with both hands in the pockets of his fine waist coat. Hermione watched him carefully from the corners of her eyes, silently appraising.

He was dressed casually for morning. His tie was green, same color with the lavish velvet curtains in this room. The Rosiers were Slytherins. But the decor of her room and a quick look into Hermione Starr’s wardrobe told her that this girl was a Ravenclaw. This fact gave her some solace. At least she did not have to pretend to be a sodding Slytherin once she returned to Hogwarts. She could make a fine Ravenclaw. In fact, it was the house she’d chosen second to Gryffindor.

“There’s nothing to see. Nothing but fog and moors and dead trees,” said Graham. “It’s the most bleak part of this country, I dare say. I’d take you to London for the season if you weren’t ill, dear.”

The manservant entered the room again with a pompous look. His hands tucked behind his back-

“Mrs. Black, Miss Black, Mr. Black and Mr. Black, Sir.”

Hermione looked up, amused. A part of her - the part that was very much her - wanted to laugh at this ridiculous announcement. So…an entire flock of Blacks? They were the people that Graham wished her to “humour”?

A large, austere sort of woman in black satin entered the room first, followed by three who seemed to be her children. The oldest was a girl, who was dark and tall. There were two boys. One was dark and sullen as his sister, but the youngest one had a lighter look on his easy, genial face. Something in his eyes reminded her of Sirius.

There was a bit of soft stir of voices and shuffling sounds in the room as everybody got up to greet each other.

“Irma, how do you do,” Graham welcomed the older woman. Hermione took a mental note of her name. “You must’ve heard Hermione’s recovered.”

“That’s wonderful news, Graham,” said Irma Black with a smile, but the smile did not reach her cold eyes. She and her children gathered around Hermione. Hermione braced herself.

“Rumour has it that she drank the draught of living death,” said Irma Black’s daughter. “A full cauldron of it. Is it true, Mr. Rosier?”

“I didn’t know you’re susceptible to such ridiculous talks, Walburga,” said Graham, laughing.

Hermione winced at this name. Walburga Black? _Oh dear. This batshit crazy old hag._

“- she took a few drops by mistake, that is all.” Concluded Graham with a chuckle, “she’s getting well now. See for yourself.”

Irma bent over and examined Hermione’s face in a severe and shrewd manner that gave Hermione an odd feeling as if she was being weighed like a bag of meat in the butcher’s market.

“Good,” she said with some satisfaction. She took a step back and beckoned her younger son. “Come, Alphard. Aren’t you most anxious to meet your fiancée?”

Hermione dropped her book.

Meet your _what_?

The boy came forward. The reluctance in his body language and expression was palpable.

Alphard, Hermione remembered this name faintly. Wait a second. Sirius mentioned him when he examined the Black family-tree tapestry with her and Harry at 12 Grimmauld Place -

_"My Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold - he’s been wiped off here, too, that's probably why — anyway, after that I looked after myself."_

Oh dear Godric!

Alphard seemed nice enough. At least much nicer than the rest of his family. He was not very tall nor heavily built. But he wasn’t very thin like Felix Rosier either. He wrung his hands together uneasily and grimaced when his mother practically picked him up by his neck and shoved him in front of Hermione.

“Let the children talk, shall we?” Laughed Graham, and they left Hermione and Alphard alone.

So that was why Graham was so anxious for her to come down and meet them! He didn’t want to break the marriage pact with the Blacks, that old git. She wondered what price he sold her for.

Judging from the agonizing look on Alphard’s face, he did not want to be here at all.

“Hello, cousin,” said Alphard finally. He sounded stiff and formal, but not rude. “I’m glad you’re well.”

She picked up her book and adjusted herself in the cushions. God this dress was choking her. She missed her jumpers and jeans.

“Really?”Said Hermione wryly. “Surely you wish me dead so you don’t have to marry me after all?”

Poor Alphard. He stared at her, positively flabbergasted. His clear, grey eyes widened.

“I don’t…” he stammered, “I never wished you ill, Hermione. I’d never!”

She tried to keep a straight face, but the quirks on the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

“Are you making fun of me?” He questioned incredulously.

“No,” lied Hermione.

“I’m not an imbecile,” he said, still shocked, “you’re _different._ You have _zero_ sense of humour. You’d never talk in sarcasm.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Hermione cleared her throat, and recomposed.

“But you just laughed at me,” he accused. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Hermione aloofly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return to my room. I‘m tired.”

“Wait, Hermione -”

Alphard scurried after her and grabbed her arm.

His brother and sister looked back at him from the mantlepiece, both shocked as if they had just seen a cat sing.

“I’ll see you in school then,” said Alphard.

“What?” Said Hermione. She was not expecting to see him in school. No. If she knew, she wouldn’t have done what she just did…

“What’s the matter?” He looked puzzled.

“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly, freed her arm out of his hand and slipped out of the drawing room.

“Twinkle!” She called to the air the second she was safely locked in her bedroom.

“Yes, Mistress,” the little house-elf appeared with an explosive crack.

“You didn’t tell me - never mind,” panted Hermione, “I just saw Alphard Black downstairs.”

The house-elf’s ears fell down in distress.

“Oh,” she said.

“What does that ‘oh’ mean?” Hermione said. “Please. You know I have some blurred memories because of my illness. I don’t remember much about him.”

“You loathe Master Alphard. And he dislike you. Last time he is here, you break a vase in his face.”

Hermione winced. “A…a vase?”

“Yes. A huge one.” Nodded Twinkle solemnly.

“Why did I do that?”

“Master Alphard says things to upset you, Mistress,” said the house-elf. “He says your friend Tom Riddle is bad. He says you ought to stay away from him.”

_Seems like my fiancé’s in his damn right mind._

“Is Alphard still in Hogwarts?” She asked.

“Yes,” said the Twinkle. “He is Slytherin. He’s in year seven.”

“What about me?”

“You is year six, Mistress,” Twinkle nodded her head. “You is in the same year with Tom Riddle.”

“Don’t tell anyone we had this conversation, all right?” Said Hermione, a bit worried.

“Mistress questions Twinkle’s loyalty? Twinkle isn’t to betray Mistress!” protested the house-elf as if she was offended.

“Isn’t your master my uncle?” Hermione raised an eye brow.

“No,” said Twinkle. “Twinkle is servant of Mistress Starr’s family. You name me when you are five year old. After…after…” she began to sob, “Mistress’s parents die, Mistress brings me here…Twinkle is tied to Rosier Park now but Twinkle’s loyalty is with Mistress only…”

She broke into miserable wailings and fell face down, hitting the floor with two little fists and melted into a full-scale emotional breakdown.

“There, there,” Hermione sat down on the floor besides her, and stroked her back gently. She remembered Crookshank. A huge lump suddenly appeared in her throat. She wondered if she should hug Twinkle and cry with her.

She looked at the calendar on her bedside table. Hermione Starr’s wand rested next to it. Fir,eleven inches with dragon heartstring. It had the same core with her old wand. Fir wood was for the strong-headed. She could get used to it.

It began to snow outside.

***

Whispers and furtive glimpses had been following Hermione since she boarded Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross -

“Is that Hermione Starr?”

“I thought she’s dea-”

“Shhh. She could hear.”

“What happened?”

“Haven’t you heard? She tried to kill herself in her dorm end of last term -”

“If she was trying to get away from exams, I’d say that was a bit extreme -”

Hermione sighed in relief when she found an empty compartment. Luckily it was the end of winter break; the train was a lot emptier than the one on September 1st.

She pulled the door close with a bit of too much force. She did not intend it.

She left her luggage in a corner and dropped into the seat by the window, looking out at the suburban view as the train left London. It definitely was not the same view she was used to.

She’d be totally lying if she thought she wasn’t nervous. She was edgy and tense and almost mental just by thinking about what could happen once she arrived at Hogwarts.

_Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it._

This thought soothed her nerves and eased that horribly heavy weight on her chest in the past week. She had to get to Hogwarts and find Dumbledore. Apart from that, she did not wish to get involved with anybody or anything during her stay in 1944.

Hermione Starr was sixteen years old - almost two years younger than she actually was - and was a sixth year in Hogwarts. She was a Ravenclaw. It seemed her parents had died many years ago. She wasn’t able to learn how because as soon as they got even close to the topic of her parens, Twinkle would break down completely and lose the ability to talk.

She did not know how exactly she was related to the Rosiers. Since her last name was Starr, she assumed her mother was connected to Graham Rosier. Perhaps she was his sister.

And since the Rosiers were mostly Slytherins, perhaps her Ravenclaw side came from her father.

Someone knocked on her compartment door and broke off her thoughts. She looked up and saw a nice looking boy with joyous grey eyes. It was Alphard Black.

“Hey,” he opened the door and invited himself in. Then he sat down next to her, looking at her with genuine concerns. “Sorry that I didn’t find you earlier. How are you feeling?”

“Alphard,” she said, a bit stressed. “You don’t have to feel obliged to look after me. I’m fine. Go back to your friends.”

He looked at her, slightly taken aback.

“But we’re engaged,” he said.

“And you know very well neither of us wanted this,” she said sharply. Perhaps a bit too sharp.

“You’re different,” mused Alphard. 

“You already said that.”

“I like it,” said the boy, positively beaming at her now.

Oh dear. Hermione felt a throbbing pain in her head.

“I’m to be your future husband,” he said. “I think we got a bit of a bumpy start since we engaged last year. I’d like to learn more about you.”

_Just because I made fun of you the other night? Jeez!_

“No,” said Hermione drily. “You don’t want to learn more about me.”

“Whatever do you mean?” He frowned, leaning in closer. “You are not still besotted with that Riddle, are you?”

“What? God no!”

“Good,” said Alphard sulkily. “I’d skin him alive if I had the chance.”

“I’d gladly watch you do that.”

Once again Alphard stared at her, stunned.

“Good lord,” he said. “You’ve really changed, haven’t you?”

“I thought I was always a bitch,” said Hermione. “Didn’t I break your face with a vase?”

“That was an accident,” he said. “You went hysterical. When you were your normal self, you’d never say something like this to me or to anyone.”

Hermione looked at him and gulped. She felt perplexed and not sure what to say. 

With a loud noise her compartment door was pulled open again. A tall, sturdy boy poked his blond head inside with a crooked grin.

It did not take her more than two seconds to figure out this this one could be. The resemblance was striking - white blond hair, pointy chin, grey eyes and a languid, arrogant face of a Malfoy prat.

“Alphard, you rascal!” laughed Malfoy, “I was looking for you everywhere. Turns out you’re hiding here with your girl -”

Alphard’s ears went red and he raised his voice to argue, but Hermione was not flustered. She merely found the situation childish and annoying. 

“Hey Starr,” said Malfoy.

“Go away, Malfoy,” she said coldly.

Alphard looked amused.

“What’s gotten into you?” Malfoy cried, taken aback.

“I guess having a near-death experience could change a person,” she said.

“Had a profound epiphany, love?”

“Not your business.”

“Snarky. Druella said you've got some brain damage and been acting oddly, I can see that now,” smirked Malfoy. His eyes sweeping over her and Alphard, “I’d like to see how Riddle’s going to take it when he found out you two are getting cozy and snuggly. In fact, I’d buy a front row ticket to the show -”

“Shut up, Abraxas,” said Alphard coldly. "Hermione's not going to have anything to do with Riddle anymore." 

“You can't be serious,” frowned Malfoy. “Have you gone nutters?”

“Is that a warning?”

“No. Consider it a courtesy call, you idiot,” drawled Malfoy. “Let it go before he chops you into pieces.”

Malfoy sauntered away.

Alphard tensed next to her, seething in anger. He looked particularly like Sirius when he was infuriated.


	3. Who Are You?

Hermione woke up with a start on the moving train. She had fallen asleep, curling into a ball on the seat. Alphard sat opposite to her with a book in hand, nodding off as well.

It was completely dark outside and the train was slowing down. Flurries of snow danced out of the frosty window. Hermione pressed her forehead against the cold glass and closed her eyes. The train traversed through the starless night in the depth of bitter winter; there was a strange tranquility in the air. It felt like the silence before the storm.

“Time to get changed,” said Alphard.

Hermione looked up, a bit startled. She did not know when he woke up and how long he’d been looking at her.

She opened up her trunk and pulled out her Hogwarts robes. Blue and bronze. She was a Ravenclaw now.

“Would you mind?” She asked.

“Of course,” he nodded gentlemanly, and got up. “I’ll come get you when we leave the train.”

“I’d rather you leave me alone,” muttered Hermione to the air after he was gone. “Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?”

She got off the train with Alphard. He accompanied her to a carriage and got in with her.

“Any seats left, Black?” Malfoy shouted in the darkness, hopping in the cold.

“No. Piss off,” said Alphard loudly, slamming the door close.

Hermione turned a laughter into chortle. And she regretted it.

Alphard was nice and fun. Hermione did not hate him. Had they met under normal circumstances, she might become good friends with him. But…

She sighed. Better not to overthink.

The Great Hall was boisterous with noise and clamour from hundreds of students. The golden plates and goblets shone from the four long tables, and the air smelled blissfully of good food. It felt familiar. It almost felt like going home.

She glanced at the high table and realized in disappointment that Dumbledore wasn’t there. But she recognized Slughorn and Dippet.

“‘scuse meh,” grunted someone from behind her.

She looked aside and widened her eyes immediately, “HAGRID?!”

It was a much younger Hagrid. He was in Gryffindor robes the size of a kid’s tent, and looked at her in surprise.

“Hullo, Starr,” he said sheepishly, and scratched his head. “I hope yer’re feelin’ better?”

How happy her heart thumped in her chest and how much she wanted to grin from ear to ear at him!

But from the frowns and weird looks shot her way from all tables, she realized something was wrong. Hermione Starr was not friendly with Hagrid. She should not even be speaking to him.

She forced the smile back, and gave him a cold nod before walked away.

“That clumsy oaf got into your way, Starr?” Said a boy, smirking at her. He was lean and dark. “Good to see you again. Heard you went feet up for a day before you came back alive. Is it true?”

“Shut up Lestrange, and let her pass,” said Alphard.

Hermione shuddered at the sound of Lestrange. Her hand moved up her arm. _Mudblood._ The letters were carved into her flesh.

Lestrange shot her an odd look. Alphard pulled her into his arms. She was too shaky to object.

“Right,” she muttered. “See you later, Alphard.”

“Where’re you going?”

She paused. She was heading to the table on the far right out of old habit. She felt acutely that the curious glances from many people darted towards her.

Alphard walked her to the Ravenclaw table. It was second to the left, right next to the Slytherin table. More people looked up at her, nudging and whispering to their friends. Hermione walked down the aisle blankly, not sure where to sit.

And then she saw him.

Sitting with a group of sixth years, Tom Riddle looked at her with chilling eyes. She inhaled sharply at his extreme handsome features and effortlessly graceful poise. His dark hair, slightly wavy and parted on one side, was dignified as a medieval prince from an old oil painting.

He took up a goblet and lifted it to his lips while his eyes were still fixed on her, unwavering. There was a subtle curve on his lips when he put down the goblet. He wore an ugly ring with a huge black gem on his forefinger.

Blood escaped her face in a surge of gut-chilling fear.

He had already killed his father and grandparents. He had already split his soul.

“Hermione?” Said a girl from the Ravenclaw’s table. “Come sit with us!”

She was almost grateful when she climbed into an empty seat on the bench. She was dazed and her head was clogged. It took her a few minutes to take a good look at who she was sitting with.

There were a few girls and boys. They were all chatting cheerfully around her.

“- so I told him not to mess with us anymore and keep his fat nose out of other people’s business,” finished a boy, laughing with everybody.

“Hey Adam,” said a girl. “D’you plan to start Quidditch training right away?”

She was the one that told Hermione to sit with her. Hermione looked at the girl. She had long, smooth hazelnut hair and wore a pair of thick glasses. Something about her felt uncannily familiar. Did she see her face somewhere else before?

“Yes, Myrtle. First match’s against Slytherin in February,” said the boy called Adam.

Hermione knocked over a goblet full of pumpkin juice. A few people exclaimed at the table, but Hermione did not care. She was staring at this round-faced giddy girl whose face was glowing and laughing. She looked so full of life, so real, so normal. She had absolutely no idea she was doomed to be murdered, to haunt a fucking loo in school and be called “Moaning Myrtle” for eternity.

“What’s the matter?”Myrtle looked at her quizzically. “You’re looking at me really weird now. I didn’t get a chance to ask you. Are you all right? You scared us last year when we found you in your bed…”

“Yeah,” said Hermione, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Did you really…”she hesitated, and then let out a kind smile. “Never mind. You don’t have to talk about it. I told everybody to leave you alone and don’t get all over you with their stupid questions. You don’t need that now.”

Hermione smiled back at her. This time it wasn’t forced.

“Seriously, are you all right?” Said Myrtle, baffled. “You’re crying!”

Hermione blinked and two large drops of tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t even realize that tears were welling up in her eyes.

“I…” she stammered. “I’m…excuse me.”

She clapped her face with a hand and ran out of the Great Hall. Alphard followed her, but she got rid of him at a turn.

She ran down corridors and flights of stairs, having no clue where she was going. Finally she ended up in Astronomy Tower. It was freezing cold. The snow had turned into thick blizzard. Sharp wind scraped across her face and it was painful. She did not have a scarf or a cloak. But it was good to stand on the highest ground in Hogwarts, letting the bitter cold filling her lungs. Somehow it did not matter how agonizingly lonely, scared and stressed she had been for the past two weeks. All she could feel was cold and numbness. It was almost a relief.

“I do hope you’re not scouting location for your next self destruction attempt, Miss Starr,” said a pleasant voice.

She looked over her shoulder and froze instantly at the sight of Tom Riddle. His voice was deep, courteous, charming. His face was impeccably polite and gracious, humble even. There was nothing about him that resembled that monster he would turn into in a few decades. Nothing.

Slowly Hermione turned around, facing him with her back pressed against the cold, hard banister. Howling wind with clusters of snow billowed behind her, stirring up her long brown hair.

He sauntered towards her, his movement fluid, graceful and calculated; his gaze was impossibly intense, dark and focused. It reminded her how a masterful, fatal prowling predator approach their prey in the dead of the night.

He moved close. His eyes never left hers. She could not move. The storm, the tower, the cold night…everything had intertwined together and woven into an impossibly intricate spell around her. She was engrossed, spellbound, _hunted_.

“Come here,” he said softly, stretching out one hand to her. The dark Gaunt ring glimmered in the snow. “Careful. It’s slippery.”

She looked at him. His dark eyes were inscrutable, fathomless, and so very cold.

She moved away from the edge of the tower, ignoring his hand. He let out a soft, almost inaudible chortle, and drew back his hand.

Hermione drew a deep breath, broke off from his gaze and walked on. She was just going to ignore him and go back, but his arm shot out quickly and took her by waist, pulling her into him. The sudden physical touch in close quarters caught her off guard. She gasped and instinctively tried to break free, but he was impossibly strong.

“Don’t you touch me,” Hermione hissed.

“Oh but you like this, remember?” He said in a mocking whisper.

Hermione stopped struggling. She knew it was going to be futile. She waited for her breaths to calm down, her face grazed over his Slytherin scarf. Then she looked up at him. Merlin’s sake, he was tall. And so good looking. Bits of shimmering snowflakes fell on his dark wavy hair. What truly unnerved her was how hot his hand felt on her back. Even through her robes and other clothes she could feel the scalding heat from his palm.

“Oh Tom,” she said sweetly.

He scoffed and relaxed momentarily. Hermione took that flashing second, lifted her knee and kicked him in his groin.

“Ouch,” he did not see this coming at all and crouched in pain.

“I bet you like this too,” she mimicked his mocking tone.

He reached for his wand and aimed it at her throat. Hermione pulled out her wand at the same second and pointed it at his heart. Sparks, gold and silver, vibrating of strong magic from owners of both wands, clashed and cracked when they met in the mid air. 

“Who are you?” Asked Riddle, slightly amazed. Now he sounded hoarse and throaty. He had dropped his act with that courteous and charming voice.

“Does it matter?” Replied Hermione coldly, glaring at him.

_I am Hermione Granger._

_I am Hermione Starr. I am Myrtle Warren._

_I am the McKinnons, the Prewetts, the Potters. I am Sirius Black. I am Dobby._ _I am the Order of Phoenix._

_I am everyone that have fallen in your path of wrath. We are one. In your eyes none of us were human enough when you kill, you blithering bigot, deranged loon and psychopathic motherfucker!_

Anger, spite and pain fused into one splendid glow in her feisty eyes. For a short moment her eyes were almost glazed with gold. There was hint of bafflement on his face. He looked at her imploringly, his eyes astute and curious. The silence stretched out. 

Suddenly he smiled. That damnably dazzling grin lit up across his face.

“You may have cheated death, Miss Starr,” he said rather graciously. There was a slight edge in his tone. “But you shan’t fool me. I will fathom you out.”

“Be my guest,” her eyes glinted in scorn, “perhaps I’m _immortal_. Think twice the next time you fuck with me.”

His face changed instantly.

He dropped his wand, staring at her with a gaze more intense than ever.

“Hermione?” Someone called from downstairs. It was Alphard. “Are you up there?”

“Yes,” she answered crisply, “coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a minor note:  
> I know that Myrtle was killed in June 1943. But in this universe the event with the chamber of secrets is moved to June 1944.
> 
> Thank everyone’s likes!!! Lots and lots of love.
> 
> I don’t have a beta so if you caught a mistake and like to tell me you’re most welcome!! My Tumblr is cassidyblack7.


	4. The Imposter

“Miss Starr. A word, please,” an elderly witch beckoned her from the High Table on the first school day as soon as Hermione walked into the Great Hall.

Hermione walked up towards her and said politely, “good morning, Professor.”

She shot her an almost surprised look as if this polite attitude was the last thing she was expecting. 

“Well,” she said sternly. “I’ve received the note from Healer Isowyre. According to him you’re well enough to return to school.”

“Er,” she said. “Yeah. I think so.”

“I want to be perfectly candid with you, Miss Starr. I cannot make exceptions for you anymore. If you continue missing classes, neglecting homework and exams this term, your grades are going to end up a complete disaster. In that case, we’d be forced to ask you to either drop out, or repeat the sixth year to improve your academic performance.”

Hermione stood there, shocked and utterly humiliated. Her worst nightmare had come true. She wondered if this woman was a real professor or a bloody boggart. _Damn it, Hermione Starr! For fuck’s sake!_

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hermione looked down at her feet. Her face had gone red. “I’ll work harder this semester. I promise.”

The professor took off her spectacles and stared as if a Crumple-Horned Snorkack just wandered into the Great Hall.

“Good,” the professor said after a brief pause. “Go on then.”

Hermione left. The Great Hall was noisy and packed with chattering students. She cast a nostalgic glance at the Gryffindor table, suppressed an urge to walk over there.

“What did Wildsmith want with you?” A boy suddenly appeared from behind her. It was Alphard, dressing neatly in brand new robes. A Quidditch captain’s badger glinted on his chest.

“She warned me not to miss any classes and exams this term,” said Hermione, still a bit upset, “was I really that bad?”

“Oh you’re notorious,” he laughed. Noticing Hermione’s hurt look, he added, “it’s not like you aren’t smart. You just never made any effort. You told me…”

He stopped, suddenly getting a bit awkward.

“What?” She pressed curiously.

Hermione sat down by the Ravenclaw table; Alphard sat down with her, ignoring the offended glares a few Ravenclaws shot his way.

“I’d rather not repeat it,” said Alphard. He was studying her face discerningly with a slight furrow in his brows. “Seriously, you don’t remember that row we had?”

“What row?”

“The worst one.”

“Care to elaborate a bit more?”

Alphard sighed, “the one we had on our engagement night last summer.”

He seemed uneasy. Hermione looked at him in silence.

“Sometimes it feels as if you don’t remember anything about me at all.” Alphard said suddenly.

Hermione tensed. She looked away a bit nervously, avoiding his gaze.

“But perhaps it’s a good thing,” continued Alphard. “We get to have a fresh start.”

“So…” said Hermione in an attempt to change the topic, “what did I tell you in that row?”

“Never mind. It was awful.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Well,” Alphard conceded, “you said you had no use of books. You’d marry me and become one of the richest witches in this country anyway. And you’d like a house of your own so you’d never need to see me again after the wedding,” he scoffed, “you said that to piss me off. And it worked. You hated me because -”

He came to an abrupt pause.

“Because what?” Hermione asked.

“Riddle, of course,” he wrinkled his nose when he said this name. “You were besotted. I may have said some bad things about him in front you.”

“Like what?”

“Like why I didn’t want to join his worshippers’ club,” Alphard shrugged. “And I tried to stop you.”

Hermione gasped, “did I join?”

“No,” he said sulkily. “Not yet. I thought you were about to. But then…it happened. You really gave all of us quite a fright.”

“Do you know why I wanted to die?”

“No. You barely spoke to me at all at that point,” he said. “And I thought I’m supposed to ask you this question. If you were ever ready to talk about it, of course.”

“Right,” she said, bemused. And then she asked, “Alphard, if you were so miserable with h- with me, why not breaking off the engagement?”

“Breaking an arranged engagement between our families?” He said, arching an eye brow, “unless I wish to be disowned.”

“ - which might not be such a terrible thing if the other option was marrying me,” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“That was what I thought until I saw you last week in Rosier Park,” he said. 

There was a hint in his tone that set off an alarm in her head. It was too close. This conversation had to stop.

“I have to go,” she said, dropping her spoon with a clank.

“But you barely eat -”

Hermione picked up her bag and fled the Great Hall.

She took another glance at the High Table. Dumbledore was absent again.

***

The first class on her timetable was Divination. _Great._

With the Slytherins. _Even better._

Luckily the classroom wasn’t on top of a trapdoor and stifled with hot fragrance. The Divination classroom in 1944 was a perfectly normal classroom. She walked in and saw that Myrtle was already there. Hermione dropped into an empty seat next to her, and left her bag under her feet.

“You were with Black this morning,” said Myrtle, a bit curious but trying not to sound it. “Seemslike you’re getting on a lot better.”

“I just had a quick conversation with him,” said Hermione plainly.

“Yes, but you were never even civil to him.” Myrtle pointed out. And then she said sincerely, “you’re a lot nicer, Hermione. You really are.”

“Wildsmith talked to me this morning. She’s worried I might skip classes again.”

“Can’t blame her,” chuckled Myrtle.

“I told her I don’t plan to do that again this year.”

Myrtle looked at her, surprised. “Oh,” she said. “Does this mean you’re not…”

“I’m not what?”

“…with Riddle anymore?”

Hermione swallowed. “Was I with him?”

“‘course. He was your boyfriend. Until he dum- until he broke up with you suddenly for no reason at all,” said Myrtle, amazed. “You don’t remember?”

“I do,” lied Hermione. This story made her fume with anger, “I did have a godawful taste in men, didn’t I?”

“To be fair, Riddle is very handsome.”

“Oh he’s barely passable,” scoffed Hermione and rolled her eyes. “Besides, he’s a narcissist loon -” 

“Er, Hermione -” said Myrtle.

“ - and a psychopath with loads of serious issues. I don’t think I’d ever want anything to do with him again.”

“Hermione,” Myrtle cleared her throat, staring behind Hermione with eyes round as a pair of saucers.

A foreboding feeling dawned on her like a bucket of ice water.

“Barely passable?” An amused chuckle came from behind and a deep, pleasant voice sent a chill down her spine, “last year you felt quite the opposite. How capricious of you, Miss Starr. Can’t say my feelings are completely unscathed.” 

“You’ve got just as much feelings as a broccoli,” bickered Hermione.

He chuckled. 

“Is that why Black’s all over you now?” His eyes gleamed, “the simpleton's swooned over by your newly developed charm and wit?” 

“Shut up,” glared Hermione. "And he's not a simpleton!" 

“Do you mind, Miss Warren?” Riddle asked Myrtle but his eyes were on Hermione still. 

Without a question Myrtle gathered her stuff as fast as she could and scampered away.

Hermione wanted to follow her.

“Not you,” Riddle sat into the chair next to her just vacated by Myrtle. “Stay.”

“Try make me,” said Hermione coldly, about to get up.

“ _I said stay_ ,” his voice changed. It was harsh and threatening.

He did not move or try to touch her like he did the night before. Instead he merely looked at her with his fathomless black eyes. She felt a sudden visceral fear rippling through her; she did not know why.

“You don’t intimidate me,” she hissed.

He scoffed derisively. But when he looked down at her, there was a dazzling, confident smile on his face -

“Should I tell your uncle that you’re a imposter then, Miss Starr?”

Hermione felt all blood had left her face and she froze. His question dropped on her head like a bomb. A humming noise echoed in her head in the aftermath of the explosion. She blinked and stared at him stupidly.

He watched her incisively. His smile deepened. When he talked again his voice was obnoxiously satisfied.

“Thank you,” he said with a wolfish grin. “I wasn’t entirely certain, but you just confirmed it for me.”

_Oh fuck him. For the love of Merlin!_

Although they did not exchange one hex, Hermione felt she had just lost a duel.

“You son of a b-” She began angrily.

“Think of something better to insult me,” he said courteously, “good day to you.”

He got back to his feet, left her desk abruptly and joined his friends in the back of the classroom.

***

_Dumbledore. I have to find Dumbledore._

But she did not have Transfiguration until Wednesday. She had back-to-back classes on Monday and it was difficult to find a time to look for Dumbledore in his office since she was already warned not to miss any classes this semester. But -

Why should she care? This was Hermione Starr’s academic records - which was quite screwed up already - not hers. If she were lucky, she’d be out of here this week.

“Do you know where Professor Dumbledore’s office is?” She asked Myrtle at lunch. “I want to ask him something.”

“Professor Dumbledore? He’s not here.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Hermione in despair, “why? Where did he go?”

“Um,” said Myrtle, startled by her reaction. “You haven’t seen the papers? He’s in Paris.”

“Paris?”

“Grindelwald caused a bit of trouble there.”

Hermione could not give more than a rat’s arse about Grindelwald right now. “When will Dumbledore be back?” She asked urgently.

“Dunno,” shrugged Myrtle. “Dippet's teaching Transfiguration for him now.”

“Dippet? I just had his class this morning and he’s bloody boring,” Olive Hornby, a Ravenclaw girl from Hermione's dorm overheard their conversation and cut in, “believe me, Hermione, we all want Dumbledore to come back sooner.”

“Did you read the Prophet yesterday?” Said Adam Abbott, who's also a Ravenclaw sixth year. “It’s insane. Grindelwald and his followers. But he’s got style, I have to say.”

“Style? Oh don’t be daft.” Said Olive, “he's the worst wizard ever in history!”

“I hope Dumbledore shove his wand up in Grindelwald’s arse and show him what’s what,” said Adam fiercely.

Olive snorted, “what? His actual wand or his _wand?_ ”

Everybody around them at the Ravenclaw table roared with laughters. Myrtle was thumping the table with a fist and laughed her tears out. Even Hermione, who was harassed by her own myriad of problems, laughed with them.

She looked around. Her laughters faltered into a bitter chuckle. With every more minute she spent here, it became harder for her to merely see them as irrelevant people in history - just names; nothing more. But they were real and young and so very alive. Being with them reminded her agonizingly of her own friends on the Gryffindor table fifty years later.

She knew it wasn’t wise to get attached or involved with anybody or anything. But sometimes she had no choice. Dumbledore was away, dealing with some world crisis. What was she supposed to do? Owl him a letter? No. She did not think a letter could explain her situation.

She swore to Merlin that Tom Riddle's predatory eyes followed her when she left after lunch for DADA.


	5. Journeys End

Hermione woke up to a cold, dim Monday morning with blizzards howling outside of the windows.

She tried to get some more sleep but she felt wide awake. After a minute she gave up. She slid out of her bed, pulled on a dressing gown and went to the bathroom. A hot, steaming shower on a cold morning to brace herself for the day was always a bless.

When she dried her hair and put on her jumper, stockings and plaid skirt, Myrtle and Olive woke up too. They stomped around in the dorm half consciously, yawning, mumbling thickly and complained about the weather.

Hermione went down to the common room and waited for Myrtle and Olive to go for breakfast together.

Hermione never thought she’d like another place in Hogwarts as much as the cozy, warm Gryffindor common room, but she was wrong. She loved this wide, airy, circular room she was sitting in. Graceful arched windows stood in the walls, which were hung with blue-and-bronze silk drapes. The ceiling was domed and painted with stars. Out of the windows, the silhouette of mountains, the Great Lake, the Forbidden Forest and the Quidditch pitch were vaguely visible behind the thick blizzard. She wondered how spectacular the view would be if it was summer.

But of course, she wouldn’t be here until summer. She’d have figured out a way to go back home already. Back to her own body. Back to the time and people she belonged with. There was a fucking war going on, for Godric’s sake. She was not a deserter, and she did not want to be.

She sat down in a chair with velvety, mid-night blue cushions under a few large bookcases which took an entire wall. The Gryffindor common room was perfect, but it could definitely use some bookcases like this. This spot had become Hermione’s favorite place to sit in the past week.

Hermione let out a sigh and looked around with adoring eyes. Strange. She felt a sting in her heart when she thought about she’d probably leave soon.

Somehow this had grown on her. This life. The people. Everything. It didn’t make any bloody sense. But what made sense anymore since she was caught up in the vortexes of time and space and got tossed here? _Nothing._ She hated this feeling of losing control.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a full-length mirror. She hadn’t really had the chance to look at herself properly since she arrived at Hogwarts. She had deliberately avoided it because somehow, seeing the face of Hermione Starr disturbed her. It was weird enough to be a possessor of a different person’s body; she chose not to look at herself as much as she could.

But the reflection in the mirror was her. Her eyes widened in surprise. It looked like Hermione Granger, and it felt like Hermione Granger. Perhaps it was because she was in Hogwarts robes now instead of those lavish, frivolous dresses she had to wear in Rosier Park. Perhaps it was her eyes, which were now bright and determined. A vivid, decisive and sharp look took over the fear and helplessness on Hermione Starr’s face.

She was _different_.

She wouldn’t judge anybody, not even Hermione Starr. She was from a different time when women, in general, were perceived, raised and educated very differently.

 _But still,_ she looked at her reflection in the mirror and mused, _you look better this way. You’ve got spirit now._

***

Hermione didn’t want to go to Divination at all.

Not just because she took no interest in this class itself, but also because she didn’t want to be in the same room with Tom Riddle. She had tried her best to avoid him in the past week. She also dodged Alphard, which was a lot easier because he was in year seven.

Apart from Divination, she also had Potions and History of Magic with the Slytherins. She dreaded having double Potions again this Friday because she was afraid Slughorn would invite her to his “little gathering of the selected” the next Saturday. She heard some people talking about it. Apparently Riddle and his gang were all invited. Alphard, on the other hand, turned Slughorn down.

“Alphard is a member of the Slug Club, for sure,” Myrtle told her once. “But he hasn’t been there for a while.”

They hurried to the Divination class after breakfast. The passages were bitter cold with drafts. When they sat down in their usual seats in the classroom, Hermione took off her scarf and took out her books.

Professor Goldglass, a middle-aged witch who looked less crazy than Trelawney, was the Divination teacher. They talked about Palmistry in this class - which was an an exceedingly subtle and exquisite art only known to the ones with the Sight, according to Professor Goldglass. And then they were paired to read each other’s hand.

“I don’t know,” Myrtle looked at Hermione’s hand and said dumbly, “um…there’s a line here. Is it your life line or is it supposed to be your head line?”

“Homework this week,” said Professor Goldglass loudly ten minutes before the bell rang, “is to find a partner and write an analysis based on reading each other’s hand. Twenty inches long. Before you leave, please decide who you’re going to pair up with and come here to tell me-”

“Should we do this together?” Said Hermione.

“Sure,” Myrtle nodded.

They waited in a queue. When it was their turn, Goldglass took a look at Hermione and said a bit irritably, “but someone already signed you in a team, Miss Starr. Is there some sort of mistake?”

“What?” Hermione frowned, “I didn’t -”

The bell rang shrilly.

“I don’t have time for this,” said Goldglass. “You’re with Mr. Riddle. Miss Warren, go find someone else.”

Myrtle and Hermione exchanged a surprised look. Hermione took a step away from the teacher’s desk, looked around and saw Tom Riddle grinning at her.

She glared at him furiously.

“What did you do that for?” She snarled.

“Pick a time to meet, partner,” he walked courteously by her side as she marched down the corridor, heading to the main staircase. “How about tonight? I’m all yours.”

“I’d rather pair up with a mountain troll,” fumed Hermione.

He winced, looking rather hurt. Hermione was certain he faked it.

“That’s brutal,” he said, smiling. “By the way, I’m curious. Just how much Polyjuice Potion do you hoard in your dorm?”

Hermione stopped dead.

“Polyjuice Potion?” She repeated, a twitch on the corners of her lips suggested a chortle was on the way but was forced back. Her bright, warm honey brown eyes goaded at him, looking both amused and scornful. Riddle stared at her face, enthralled and perplexed.

“Is that your best theory?” Hermione mocked, “try something better.”

“I do have other theories. Loads,” he scoffed, still staring at her. He took a step closer and Hermione backed off instinctively. Her back hit the cold stone wall. He moved closer, and put a hand on the wall next to her head.

“You’re wrong,” Hermione said impatiently, feeling quite confident. “For the last time, Riddle, I’m not an imposter.”

“Bollocks,” he said from gritted teeth. He tilted his head slightly and took in a whiff. “Hmm. You’re not wearing any perfume today. What about your favorite lilac scent?”

“I ran out of it.”

His dark eyes gleamed wickedly. “But sweetheart, you hated lilac.” he said softly in a dangerously low murmur. “You might have grown some brains, but you’re an _awful liar._ ”

Hermione scowled at him, irritated.

“You see,” he whispered with a devious, but insanely good-looking grin across his face, “I never enjoyed touching her. But she was such a sweet little darling who’d do anything for me just for a kiss.”

 _He’s trying to break me down and admit that I am NOT Hermione Starr_.

“But you…you _don’t_ like my touch,” he continued, studying her with intense gaze. “You look at me as if you’re wary, repelled even. As if _you know_.”

He uttered the two words with a husky growl. The curiosity in his eyes were getting maddening and contorted his face. The silence stretched out for a few heartbeats.

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW?” He raised his voice suddenly and snapped. It gave Hermione quite a scare and she actually jumped a little. But she pulled herself back together quickly.

“Nice interrogation skills,” she lifted her chin indignantly, “is this about your delusional hubris, Riddle? It’s easier to believe I’m an imposter than the fact that I’m just not into you anymore. Is that all this is about?”

He scoffed, looking ridiculed. “I’ll see you tonight in the library for Divination homework,” he said sternly. “Seven. Be there on time or I’ll make you regret it.”

“How about you ask nicely?” Said Hermione.

He scowled at her.

“Say the magic word,” she said menacingly. “Or I won’t show up.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I mean it,” she snarled.

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes, and said scornfully, “please.”

“Seven then,” she said loftily. “I only have one hour for you. And I’m only meeting you for homework. If you try to bring up anything else I’ll leave right away.”

***

She looked at the High Table at lunch and still, no sign of Dumbledore.

She had DADA in the afternoon. After dinner she went to the library. The way to library from Great Hall, which she had walked thousands of times, never felt so long and unnerving.

She pushed into the library.

Riddle was already there. He pulled out the chair for her when she arrived. She sat down next to him, chewing her lips. This was also her usual seat fifty years later. How come he decided to sit here as well? 

“What’s the matter?” He noticed her look and asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly and dismissively.

There was a big fire going on behind them. She glanced out of the windows. It had stopped snowing. The sky was gloomy and cloudy. Howling wind pounded on the castle walls, making an eerie, whistling sound through the cracks between rocks. 

She pulled out her quill, ink bottle and a roll of new parchment from her bag. “I suggest we start with literature review,” she said. “Cassandra Trelawney’s book provides good materials. I’ll go get it.”

She left her seat, and returned a minute later with an old, battered tome in hand. She dropped it in front of Riddle with a bang, deliberately knocking his ink bottle to the floor.

“Sorry,” said Hermione offhandedly. “Didn’t see that.”

Riddle fixed his ink bottle with a quick spell and then rested his wand on the table.

“You know where the book is,” he said, bemused.

“I happen to have spent six years in this castle,” she retorted.

“But you forget, she doesn’t come here,” said Riddle with a little derisive smile. “I doubt she ever voluntarily opened one single book in her life. She learned how to read from fashion catalogues.”

“Stop talking as if I’m not me,” snapped Hermione.

“Drop it,” he drawled, casting her a glance. “You know that I know.”

“I said if you try to bring up anything else other than homework I’ll go,” Hermione said irritably.

“As you wish,” he said, and dipped his quill in the ink bottle.

She ignored him for the next fifteen minutes and worked on the beginning of her essay. She finished an introduction to Palmistry, and then cast a stealthy sideways glance at Riddle. He was also writing his essay. His hand was very neat, fluid and slanted in an old-fashioned way.

“You wish to read my hand first or should I read yours?” He asked without looking up. It was as if he knew she was looking at him.

“I can read yours first,” she said.

He stretched out a hand to her, palm up. Hermione tensed. Suddenly it felt so strange. She was sitting in the library, working on a bloody team project with the youthful Voldemort, that red-eyed, noseless, revolting maniac who murdered so many people she cared about. She _did not_ want to touch his blood-stained hand.

“You should take my hand,” he reminded. “It’s in the Palmistry instructions.”

She drew a deep breath, fighting the waves of reluctance and nausea inside of her.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, “my hand isn’t poisonous.”

“I don’t want to touch you.” she said stiffly. “You’re the reason I wanted to die. Thank you very much.”

“How do I know she’s that pathetic? All I did was dumping her. You can’t hold me responsible for it.”

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. And then she took his hand.

She gasped slightly by how warm and real and normal his hand felt in hers.

Her forefinger chafed the white sleeves of his shirt. Suddenly she realized how close they were. Her thigh, which was in black stockings underneath her plaid skirt, rested only half an inch from his leg in those grey trousers. She could smell him. He didn’t smell like a rotten, disgusting old monster; he smelled nice and clean, like ink, books and fresh parchment.

“So?” His deep voice sounded above her head. “You’ve been staring at my hand for a full minute now. What did you read?”

“Well,” she cleared her throat, “your life line seems to come to an abrupt stop here, which means you’re about to suffer a gruesome and _very_ bloody death next Thursday morning. Possibly with your brains bashed out.”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“That is an extremely detailed prophecy,” he said, amused. “You just made that up.”

“You don’t believe you’re going to die soon?” She arched a brow, and dropped his hand.

“Hopefully not,” he said graciously. “My turn.”

He grabbed her hand and looked at her palm carefully; his thumb stroked the inside of her wrist gently and rather…sensually.

“Will you stop doing that?” She snapped.

“What?” He asked almost innocently.

“Touching my wrist!”

“Does it turn you on?” He chuckled, “didn’t work for her. She doesn’t care too much about touching other parts except her -”

“Stop it!” she cut him off, feeling an odd spasm in her stomach.

“Hmm,” he said. He stopped touching her wrist but trailed along her palm with a finger, “you life line is quite short here. It says you’re supposed to be dead two weeks ago. On the evening before Christmas holiday, to be precise.”

“You just made that up too,” she said, staring at him. “This is getting tiresome.”

“You intrigue me,” he said in a slow, mesmerizing voice. “The fact that you came back from death intrigue me immensely.”

“Nobody can come back from death,” said Hermione sharply. “It’s against the balance of the nature.”

“Not if you use magic. Very deep, advanced magic.”

“You’re wrong,” rebuked Hermione. Their eyes were fixed with each other’s now. “Magic is nature. Defying death is like defying nature itself. It’s a worthless and stupid pursuit.”

“Magic is power.”

“No. Magic is _constraint and balance,_ like everything else in this world.” She said hotly, her discretion overpowered by her scholar’s zeal. “Gilgamesh never found immortality after all those adventures, did he? He had to come to term with it and realize life isn’t about the end. It’s about the journey.”

He was now looking at her with rapt attention and curiosity. After a heart beat of silence, he said quietly, “the life you seek you never will find.”

“When the gods created mankind, death they dispensed to the mankind,” Hermione continued almost reflexively.

“Life they kept for themselves,” Tom finished the lecture from Shiduri with a slightly mocking tone.

“You can never be a god,” said Hermione quietly. “You simply cannot.”

“Are you comparing me to the Babylonian King?” He mocked.

“No,” said Hermione. “I’m trying to convince you that all men must die. Everything in this world comes from their opposite states. Like large and small, love and hate, life and death. They have to balance each other out or the order of the nature wouldn’t exist anymore.”

“The Cyclical Argument,” said Tom. “Smart. But this is what Socrates used to prove that soul does exist and is in fact immortal.”

“Yes, along with the Argument from Recollection and the Affinity Argument.”

“Then you should know our souls exist before we were born, and they continue to exist after we perish.”

“Exactly. But it doesn’t mean you won’t die physically.”

They fell silent. Hermione was too engrossed in their conversation to realize that he was still holding her hand and their thighs were pressed against each other now. She had never had such a conversation with anybody else. No. Not even with her best friends. His eyes darkened. He was looking at her in amazement that he did not bother to hide. 

She did not want to further think about what it meant.

It meant _nothing_.

“I think this conversation has transgressed way beyond what this Divination essay was about,” said Tom. He began caressing the inside of her wrist again in that particular way that send little shocks down her stomach.

“Your pulse is racing up,” he said tenderly, dangerously. His voice grew icy, triumphed with cruelty, “ _surrender_ , Hermione.”

Hermione pulled her hand from his grip abruptly and moved away from him.

“In your dreams,” she said coldly.

“That would be a most fascinating dream,” he said venomously in a gruff, feral voice. 

“You should get some help,” said Hermione haughtily. “I think we can finish the homework on our own from this point.”

She ran back to the Ravenclaw tower and headed straight to bed. She let down the curtains around the four-poster and threw herself face down into the blue duvet cover. Her head was in a mess. Blood pounded in her ears and her heart beat erratically. It was only because of the run. It had absolutely nothing to do with the adrenaline rush. _Nothing_.

A barn owl tapped on the windows and Myrtle went to get it. In a moment she said, “Hermione? Someone sent you a note.”

“Thanks,” Hermione poked her head out of her bed curtains and grabbed the note that Myrtle handed her.

She concealed herself again in her bed curtains, sitting against the pillows and opened the small piece of parchment.

There was no signature. It was just one simple line written in Tom’s neat, slanted hand -

_“Journeys end in lovers meeting.”_


	6. A Personal Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. Be inside of Riddle's crazy head for a short while and put up with his rant.  
> 2\. Bit of violence and blood.  
> 3\. Possessive & aggressive behaviour / Tom being Tom.
> 
> I know it pretty much goes without saying but still, I just want to state here that whatever Tom believes in when he's being a shithead in this fic, it's not what I believe in.
> 
> I was laughing when I wrote Tom’s diary. God he’s such a hilarious drama queen :D

* * *

_She looked at me with reproach, condemnation and_ _sympathy_ _. Why?_

_I found myself thinking about her today, again, just before I went to sleep. This is maddening. How can I let this girl hold dominion over me?_

_I can’t believe I discussed the topic of immortality with her. But I admit that conversation was not completely insipid._

_She’s not Starr. I am sure of it._

_She has been avoiding me. But I have kept an eye on her. I can tell that she was playing dumb in classes. She knew the answers; I recognized the eager sparks in her eyes. There were a few times she almost raised her hand._

_Has Starr come back to haunt me, torture me and avenge her death in a different spirit? She once said in a joke that she’d do it if I broke my promises to her. She said her love would never die. What a silly, melodramatic notion. There’s nothing in this world that is eternal. Nothing lasts but my cause of greatness._

_No. It’s not possible. I have never heard of such magic. It does not exist._

_Who is she?_

_She lingers in my thoughts when I am awake, and haunts me in my dreams. This morning I saw her sitting with Black, laughing and eating breakfast together. I wanted to bang Black’s stupid face into his cereal bowl and snap his neck like a fucking twig._

_I wouldn’t say she’s beautiful, no. But her eyes were bright as the stars in the midsummer's night, her lips delicate as rose petals. Although, thou art more lovely and more temperate. I have been intimate with her body on multiple occasions before. How come I’ve never noticed it or cared about it until now?_

_She has enticed me, bewitched me. She carries the original sins with her. I would like to have a taste of the honey between her lips and take a glimpse of the wonders under her skirt._

_Have I succumbed to the despicable human weakness?_ _Or have I lost my bloody sanity?_

_Is she an angel or a devil? Is she sent from heaven or hell?_

_Is she here to test my resolution, and steal my eyes away from my loyalty to the beliefs of the great Salazar?_

_Desire and lust. Nothing more. Surely I am not obsessed. Nor am I fond of her. Such feelings are repulsive and are for the weak. They are beneath me._

_Women, as fundamentally flawed by their sex just as Mudbloods were by their inferior breed, are not to be taken as my intellectual equal and intimate company._

_And she called_ **_me_ ** _a loon and a psychopath. What a joke._

_But if she is willing to yield to me, I don’t think I’d give a shit about who she really is._

_She is MINE._

_That's all that matters._

_TMR._

_January 27th, 1944._

***

The snow storms quieted down in mid February, but it was still very cold. Alphard was getting busy with his Quidditch training schedule and N.E.W.Ts preparation. Hermione only saw him a couple of times a week, and those meetings were usually rushed. He felt quit guilty about it, but Hermione assured him that he did not have to be.

Hermione did not share Alphard’s enthusiasm in Quidditch, but she went to see his first two matches. Slytherin lost to Hufflepuff, but then defeated Gryffindor. Malfoy, who was also on the Quidditch team, went with them to Three Broomsticks to celebrate on a Saturday night.

Hermione didn’t really wish to go. Most of Alphard’s friends were seventh years and she didn’t know them. But it was hard to come up with a plausible excuse and not hurt his feelings.

They came back from Hogsmeade around ten. Alphard walked her back to the Ravenclaw Tower.

“Well, I’ll go back and rest,” she said. “Congratulations again.”

“Hermione,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you want to come in? It’s quite cold out here.”

She answered the riddle by the eagle knocker, and walked in with him. The common room was sprawled with students. A few of them looked up at Alphard and frowned. A girl prodded her friend and giggled. Hermione ignored her.

They sat down on a cozy settee in a corner close to the fireplace. 

“I know that you don’t like talking about it,” he began, “but there’s something I need to tell you. My mother told me to give you this.”

He pulled out a dark velvet box from his pocket. It was the size of a large book. Apparently he had used some extension magic on his pocket.

The velvet box sprung open; Hermione widened her eyes at a set of stunning jewelry with diamonds and sapphire. There was a necklace, a pair of earrings, and a tiara.

Hermione shut the box close.

“What’re you doing? For Merlin’s sake!” She said sharply. She looked around in a hurry, wishing that nobody else had seen it.

“Just some rocks from my family’s vault,” Alphard said with a grin, “my mother wanted you to have my great Aunt Cassiopeia’s emerald set. It was more valuable. But I thought sapphire goes better with you. And believe me, it took me quite a while to change her mind."

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“It’s just a silly tradition,” he let out a chuckle, slightly abashed. “Every Black bride gets these for the wedding.”

“There’s going to be _a wedding_?”

“Well, that’s what engaged people usually plan to do, isn’t it?” He said, a bit amused. “Our wedding is next summer, right after your graduation. Don’t tell me you've forgotten about that as well.”

“I thought you didn't want to marry me,” she said, annoyed. “There’s nothing between us. We don’t even know each other-”

“That’s not entirely true. I thought we became friends.”

Hermione let out a sigh.

“So,” he said. “According to the papers, I’ll come into my fortune this summer after I graduate. My inheritance isn’t as large as Walburga and Cygnus’s, but it’s enough for us to have a rather comfortable life. I plan to purchase an estate in Surrey-”

“Slow - the - heck - down,” Hermione interjected, “what’re you talking about? You’re freaking me out.”

“That’s not my intention, I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out a hand hesitantly before putting it on her shoulder. “I just want to say that perhaps it’s time we got on with the plans. Don’t you think? I have a few places in mind. But I want to know what you think first before I close the deal-”

“Alphard Phineas Black,” she said, looking at him sternly. “I am _not_ going to marry you. I can’t. Is that clear?”

He froze. He looked as if Hermione just punched him on the face.

“You’re still _you_ ,” after a long, agonizing silence, he said at last. “I was under the impression that things are different now. I thought _you_ were different.”

“I don’t dislike you, Alphard,” she tried to explain, but it was hard and her mouth felt dry. “I see you as a good person. A friend.”

How could she possibly get herself into a marriage? She hadn’t even had the chance to figure out why and how she ended up here. Dumbledore was still in Europe, and she was waiting for him to return to Hogwarts so that she could ask him for help. And when she left, Hermione Starr would probably drop dead on spot for all she cared. 

“Then what is the problem?” He asked quietly. His grey eyes were sad and puzzled. It made Hermione uncomfortable. She wished he was a nasty person. It would probably be easier that way.

“I don’t love you," she said flatly. 

Another blow. Hermione closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see his face.

“Is there someone else?” He asked. His voice was calm, but slightly trembling. “Is it because of _him_?”

Alphard didn’t utter his name but she knew who the hell he meant. And for a strange reason she felt a sharp sting of guilt. Oh for the love of God!

“No,” she said irritably. “I’m _not_ in love with anybody, Alphard. I simply do not wish to get married as soon as I leave school. I’m not a package to be shipped from one man to another.”

Alphard looked hugely relieved. But she felt he missed her point.

“I understand,” he said. “But you do know that I wouldn’t put any restrictions on what you wish to do?”

 _As if I‘d need your permission to do anything_ …Hermione almost rolled her eyes to the back of her skull. 

“It’s just the situation is a bit tricky,” said Alphard. “The gold is already paid from my family to yours, and the engagement was announced on the Prophet…”

_The gold? I knew that Graham Rosier sold the girl. I knew it!_

Hermione felt a throbbing pain in her head.

“- but I’ll talk to them,” continued Alphard. “I’ll tell them to delay the wedding. It doesn't matter to me. I can wait.”

"What if they don't agree?”

“Fuck them then,” Alphard said rudely. A light of mischievousness flashed through his eyes, “I'll wait until I get my money first before having that conversation with them.”

She snorted. “Very cunning.”

"Just basic self-preservation when dealing with people like my lovely family." He laughed.

Alphard agreed to keep the jewelry for her since Hermione didn’t want to take it. They talked casually for another half an hour before she walked him out of the common room.

"Good night," she said.

He bent down naturally, and left a swift, feather-light kiss on the left corner of her mouth.

She stiffened awkwardly.

“Good night,” he said affectionately with an indulging smile.

***

Hermione did not want to start a war between the Rosier and the Black family. No. That would be a bad idea.

She continued to see Alphard occasionally in the Great Hall. If they happened to enter the Hall around the same time, Alphard would always come to sit and eat with her. Malfoy commented most eloquently that Alphard was “a spineless Slytherin who converted to Ravenclaw for a ruddy woman". 

Alphard developed a habit of giving her a peck on the cheek - sometimes dangerously close to her mouth - whenever they said goodbye. It wasn’t a big deal for Hermione. Since it helped keep up the ruse of her engagement, she just went with it.

There was one time when they were out of the Ravenclaw Tower alone, he cupped her face with a hand and lingered his lips on her cheek. His other hand moved on the waistband of her skirt. She broke it off and began babbling about dragon dung's medical efficacy non-stopping for the next ten minutes and did not give poor Alphard a single chance to cut in until she said "goodbye" and "see you tomorrow" and vanished into the Ravenclaw common room. 

She didn’t know if it was her imagination but she sensed Tom Riddle’s sulky gaze a few times when she ate breakfast with Alphard. She tried to ignore him as much as she could.

Alphard was charming in a nice and normal way. She felt comfortable with him, and safe. But with Tom…

No. She refused to analyze it or even think about him. At least she had some self-respect and senses left, thank you very much! It was scandalizing enough to have _that sort of thoughts_ about him! Of all people! 

But she did replay their moments in her head more than once - the touch of his hand, the sparks in their conversation, the intensity in the air fully charged with crackling static on the cusp of exploding…

Oh for fuck’s sake!

It was as if she had lost her bloody sanity!

***

On a bright Wednesday morning near the end of February, she walked into the Transfiguration classroom with Myrtle. Warm sunshine poured in from the tall windows and filled the class. She stopped at the sight of a tall wizard in a nicely cut brown tweed suit.

“Professor Dumbledore!” She cried out before she could stop it.

A much younger Dumbledore looked up and smiled.

“Ah, Miss Starr, Miss Warren,” he said kindly. “Good to see you again.”

A small crowd of excited students gathered around the teachers desk, asking Dumbledore about his travels and the incidents in Paris. Dumbledore talked with them in an easy, witty manner and made everybody laugh from time to time. Hermione couldn’t find a chance to speak to him alone.

When the class was over, she went up to him and said, “Professor, I wonder if I could pay you a visit in your office. I have a question that I wish to speak to you in private.”

Dumbledore looked at her, a bit surprised. But he hid it well and said politely, “certainly. But unfortunately I don’t have office hours today. How about this Friday at lunch break?”

Hermione’s heart flew up.

“Of course,” she said brightly. “Thank you, sir.”

She went out of the classroom and walked down the corridor, beaming to herself in the radiating streaks of sunshine of early spring. Her heart had never felt this light for a long, long time. There was nothing that could dampen her good mood, except -

“Had a great time with Black last night?” Hissed a sour voice next to her venomously. “Is that why you’re grinning like a nutter in the middle of a day?”

She looked up and saw Tom Riddle catching up with her, his face dark and stormy, his robes billowed as he walked in large strides.

“I am not grinning,” she said defensively, her eyes narrowed in irritation. “Call me a nutter again and I’ll hex you - what d’you think you’re doing?”

He grabbed her wrist forcefully and jerked her into an alcove.

He slammed her back to the stone wall and she winced in pain. Then he pinned both her hands on the wall besides her head and breathed at her furiously. His lip was almost touching hers. She turned her face away. 

“Did you fuck him?” He growled, “you have _one second_ to tell the truth!”

“It’s not your bloody busi-”

“ _Legilimens!_ ”

His force pushed into her head without warning like a sharp blade.

Glimpses of broken images flashed through her head like an inconsistent, poorly edited picture -

_She lied in her large bed in Rosier Park, listening to Healer Isowyre and Graham Rosier shouting at each other._

_She was resting in a bathtub full of scalding hot water, lathering soap on her creamy, smooth skin._

_She was on Hogwarts Express. The train moved through large patches of green field, scattered hamlets and cows grazing in the grass._

_Voices and colours swirled around her. The sky was grey and the snow was blowing. She was on the Astronomy Tower, pointing a wand at Riddle’s heart. She was sitting in the library, holding her breath when Riddle stroked her wrist…Alphard kissed the corner of her mouth..._

_“Professor," she said to Dumbledore, "I wonder if I could pay you a visit-"_

“No!” She screamed and pushed him out.

A skull-crushing, head-splitting pain came to her suddenly and her vision blurred. She heard Riddle grunted when his head hit the stone floor with a loud thud. Her wand felt hot in her hand and was pointed at his throat.

“Didn't your mother teach you that walking into other people's brains uninvited might just be a little bit inappropriate and, I don't know, _fucking offensive?_ ” she roared in fury with tears rolling in her eyes because of the pain, not because she wanted to cry. “Oh wait a sec, she didn't. Because she's fucking dead, you bastard!" 

Riddle seemed to be stunned speechless by her enormous outburst of rage and insults. Judging from his bewilderment, Hermione figured this wasn't his first time doing this to others - possibly to Starr - and never got a response like this. And this made her even angrier. 

He looked at her, puzzled. 

“Why?” He asked hoarsely. “Why don’t you have any memories more than two months old?”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” She shouted.

She caught him off-guard. Tom’s wand shot out of his hand and flew out of the window. It broke the stained glasses with a loud, shattering noise; shiny shards of glass broke off from the frame, stopped in mid air before they hit anything, hovering above Hermione’s head like a glinting cluster of glassy cloud.

Hermione walked out of the alcove defiantly. The glass shards circled over her head and followed her.

“Stop this nonsense,” he said impatiently. “Don’t be a vindictive bitch-”

“You bet I am. _Oppugno!_ ” She shrieked.

"What the fu-"

He didn't get to finish the profanity. The shards of glass aimed at him and sped like hail of sharp bullets. They cut into every inch of his exposed skin brutally. Blood stained everywhere on his shirt and robes. He let out a yell which sounded like "are you fucking serious you -", but he shielded his face with both arms before he had the chance to unleash more colourful language.

And with a horrified scream from a small group of students who just walked into the corridor, Riddle stumbled backwards and...dropped out of the window. 

“What in heaven’s name is happening here?” Said the angry voice of Professor Wildsmith. Dumbledore, Goldglass and Slughorn followed her in hurried steps.

Wildsmith took a look at the scattered glass and the blood on the floor, and then looked back at Hermione. “Was anyone hurt?”

Hermione pointed out of the window wordlessly. All the teachers went towards the window to look outside.

Tom Riddle lied in a bush lifelessly, covered in blood; some first years gathered around him like a bunch of terrified bunnies. 

“You did this to him?” Asked Goldglass shockingly, lifting a hand to her chest.

"Yes," said Hermione indignantly. "But that was pure self-defense! He used Legilimency on me!" 

"A student skilled with Legilimency? That is very impressive!" Said Slughorn.

"Horace!"

"Sorry...I mean, it's bad, obviously...Oh sweet Salazar, is that Mr. Riddle?!" 

Dumbledore didn’t speak. He watched Hermione quietly in a curious and pensive way.

“Someone conjure a stretcher for the boy and fetch Madam Derwent!” Squealed Wildsmith. Then she turned around and glared at Hermione, “fifty points from Ravenclaw! You should've taken this matter to a teacher instead of almost killing a school mate." She then glared at Slughorn, "and if Mr. Riddle _did_ use Legilimency as Miss Starr accused, there should be at least one hundred points taken from Slytherin! But I’ll leave this to your judgement, Horace." 

"Oh yes, yes...certainly." Said Slughorn feebly, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. "I will look into it when Mr. Riddle's well enough to speak again." 

"Now," said Wildsmith sharply, "let's talk about what caused this malicious confrontation between you two. Miss Starr?" 

Hermione gulped. 

She calmed down a little bit; the hot rage that almost consumed her before had abated and her brain began working again as she quickly analysed the situation - 

Riddle wanted to find out who she really was, of course. He was fucking relentless. He didn’t care if she slept with Alphard or not. It was just an poorly fabricated excuse. But she couldn't tell the truth, she realized. Not in front of all these people!

Jesus fucking Christ! 

At last, she looked up at Wildsmith, and said in a painful voice from gritted teeth - 

"He is my ex-boyfriend, Professor. We had a...er, a bad row over my fiancé. It's a rather personal matter and I don't wish to go into details, if you don't mind." 

There was a moment of silence from all the teachers. Dumbledore looked amused. For a second Hermione thought he was about to chuckle, but he didn't. 

"Well, well, well," said Slughorn heartily, "young love, eh? Always full of fire and passion! Reminds me of my first marriage. A total disaster... Oh dear me, I don’t even want think to about it...” 

Wildsmith's mouth twitched irksomely. It looked like she was chewing her tongue. 

"All right," she said finally, looking at Hermione. "I suggest you and your hotheaded suitors learn to handle personal issues privately and maturely, Miss Starr. Meanwhile, you and Mr. Riddle will both receive a full month's detention." 

"I understand," replied Hermione quickly. "But please don't put us together or we might try to murder - I mean, distract each other."

"Fair enough," said Wildsmith. “You can get started with scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeon tonight." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll take a break after this chapter. Will be back in Jan. Happy holidays to you all! Stay safe and happy. 
> 
> I didn’t reply to every comment but I want to let you know every single one means so much to me! Writing a story is hard and I couldn’t have kept going without your lovely feedbacks 🧡🧡🧡


	7. Magical Number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> This chapter contains description of psychopathic thoughts after murder.

He had felt it, the moment of absolute clarity, under the effulgence of the large, round moon above the valley of Little Hangleton. Morfin Gaunt’s wand was still hot in his hand after the three killing curses it had so ruthlessly executed. His _first murder._

Tom had prepared himself for this trip meticulously. He went through all the records he could find about the Gaunts, only he wasn’t expecting to find the Riddles as well. The killing wasn’t premeditated. No. It was improvisation.

He’d always wondered what it must feel like to kill. To take the life from another human’s body. To watch the lights die out from their eyes. And he finally tasted it tonight. He had killed his worthless muggle father. Impatience was what he felt. The way Tom Riddle Sr and his parents screamed and cried and begged! It _disgusted_ him. 

But it was such a lovely summer evening, he thought as he walked down the dewy, moonlit lane. Crickets chirped somewhere in the grass; the air smelled like wild bluebell and lilac. He had never felt so lucid before. It was as if his sensations had been sharpened; the noises were gone, and suddenly he could see into his heart and his visions starkly clear.

He felt _good,_ but it wasn’t joy. It was _dominance._

Finishing off someone’s life with his own hands gave him the wildest thrill he'd never had before - hell, it was way better than sex. He was _powerful._

He returned to the Gaunt hovel, Morfin was still on the floor, stunned unconscious. Tom knelt next to him and jerked that precious heirloom from his finger. The ring was made of gold and had a large, ugly black stone in the middle. 

Tom lifted the ring into the light by the window and examined it carefully. It looked exactly like the one he read about in _Nature’s Nobility - A Wizarding Genealogy_. Engraved in the black stone was the Peverell coat of arms. 

He slipped the ring onto his forefinger. It fit perfectly. 

_My trophy,_ he smiled a sinister, cruel smile. _A fine vessel for a fragment of my soul._

He dropped Morfin’s wand, and pointed his yew wand at him, “ _Obliviate._ ” 

***

Tom woke up suddenly, panting in the darkness. It took him several seconds to realize that he was lying in a bed in the hospital wing. The long room was quiet and empty. And then he remembered why he was here. 

_Bloody hell._

He fell back into the pillow. A few locks of his luxuriantly black hair fell on his forehead. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin. He had dreamed of Little Hangleton. He did not understand why. 

_Was it remorse?_ A little voice in his mind suggested. 

_You have got to be joking,_ he thought contemptuously, feeling harassed. 

_They died in your hands, Tom._ Said the little voice adamantly. _Did you look at them in the eyes at the end?_

“ _Shut the fuck up_!” He roared. His voice echoed in the empty hospital wing. 

Peeves giggled, hanging upside down under the ceiling. 

“Having a bad night?” The poltergeist cackled wickedly, “talking to yourself is the first sign of going crazy, Princess.” 

“Piss off!” Tom yelled at Peeves, and tossed a pillow at him. The pillow missed him. Peeves flew away, still laughing. 

He _never_ had a dream about the night he killed his family. _Never._ Why should he?

Throwing a midnight tantrum at Peeves didn’t help get the frustration out of his system. He didn’t even know he remembered so many intricate details from that night. It made him feel sick and _weak_. It was revolting. 

***

“Ah Hahahaha-”

Savage, uproarious laughters came from the Slytherin table on Friday morning as Abraxas Malfoy vividly demonstrated to everybody how a certain someone got tossed out of a window. 

Hermione grabbed her fork tightly, considering jabbing it into Malfoy’s eyes.

It had been two days that Tom Riddle was sent to the hospital wing. Slughorn has been just. Slytherin lost one hundred points. The teachers had warned the people who witnessed the accident not to talk about it and spread rumour, which was exactly why every single person in school had heard of the story. In most versions, the reason for their fight was that Hermione slept with Alphard and Tom got pissed. 

She was getting a lot more glances and whispers and snickers in classrooms and corridors. She wished people would just shut the fuck up about it. 

But Alphard, to her utter annoyance, seemed quite gleeful about the incident, and laughed every time Malfoy pulled off another dumb joke about Tom. 

“I wish you’d stop encouraging him,” Hermione said irritably on Friday morning over breakfast. She felt like an explosive owl. 

“Does it bother you?” 

“Of course! Now the entire school thinks that we fu - slept!” 

Alphard spat out the pumpkin juice back into his goblet and coughed. 

He laughed, “but even if we did, what’s the problem?”

“For Merlin’s sake-” 

“I’m sorry,” Alphard apologized promptly, “but you have to admit it’s a funny business. Turns out Riddle can’t even handle a girl -” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Um, nothing.” 

“ _Even_ a girl?” Hermione raised her voice. 

“I didn’t mean - where’re you going?” 

Hermione dropped her fork with a clank and got back to her feet. “I’m not hungry anymore.” 

She swung her bag to her shoulder and strode out of the Great Hall. Perhaps she shouldn’t have snapped at Alphard. But for some odd reason she felt extremely quick-tempered today and found everybody excessively irksome. 

Hermione headed towards the dungeon for detention. She had a free period on Friday mornings, but not anymore. 

The dungeon was cold and damp. Slughorn was waiting for her already. Although he wasn’t her House head, he was a lot more lenient with her than Wildsmith. Last night he allowed her to use magic to clean the cauldrons, and let her leave an hour earlier.

“Good morning, Professor,” said Hermione. 

“Morning, Miss Starr,” he said delightfully. “I don’t have any cauldrons for you to clean today. But perhaps you could help me with an errand. I need you to deliver these to Madam Derwent. It’s a new batch of Dreamless Sleep Potion I brewed for her…” 

He gave her a brown satchel with vials clinking inside.

“And when you’re back,” said Slughorn, “perhaps you could help me with these first years’ essays.” 

“No problem, sir,” said Hermione, and left the dungeon. 

She was half way through the corridor towards the hospital wing when she suddenly realized Tom Riddle was in there. 

She hadn’t seen him since he was brought here. She heard Olive and Myrtle’s giggling conversation last night in the dorm; they sent a card to him. It seemed Riddle was awake already. It didn’t take Madam Derwent more than ten minutes to fix the glass cuts on his skin. But he suffered some hemorrhages from the fall, which was why he was going to be hospitalized over the weekend. 

She loitered outside of the hospital wing, hesitating and fidgeting. She didn’t know what was it that stopped her from walking in. Was it guilt? God she hoped not! Why would she even feel a shred of guilt for hurting him, the bastard-of-the-century?

As she was hesitating, she noticed that the door was left ajar. Through a small opening she peeked inside, and saw three people standing in front of a bed. 

Tom, in striped pyjamas, was sitting quietly on the bed. She recognized Madam Derwent, the school matron; Dippet, the headmaster; and a tall, grey-haired, arrogant sort of man in a very fine black cloak with silver clasps. Hermione didn’t know who that was.

“- this case, as you may be aware of already, the student doesn’t have a legal guardian we could write to,” said Dippet in a feeble, sympathetic voice. “Surely the school board doesn’t deem it necessary to review Tom’s eligibility to full scholarship, Pollux? He doesn’t have other funds for his education.” 

Hermione widened her eyes. Tom’s scholarship? 

She frowned. Yes. Of course Tom was on scholarship! How else was he supposed to pay for everything? He was penniless. It amazed her how she’d never even thought about it before.

“Tom is one of our top students with excellent academic and extracurricular performances. I can vouch for him personally,” said Dippet.

“I trust your word, Headmaster,” said the man with the strange name Pollux, casting an indifferent look at Tom. “However, I do have a personal concern about it. Allow me to address you not as a school governor, but a parent. My son’s betrothed, Miss Starr, was also involved in this incident. How can you be sure that other students would be safe if we allow this dangerous young man to remain at Hogwarts?” 

Hermione’s jaw almost dropped. Goodness. Alphard’s dad?

“Tom is not dangerous, he is talented,” said Dippet quietly. “It was merely a moment of passion between the young people. Surely you can understand. Allow me to speak to you not as Headmaster, but a parent as well. I know children at this age. They can be hotheaded, impulsive and silly. But this is what educators are for. We ought to point them to the right path, not to take away their chances.” 

There was a brief pause. Then Pollux said loftily, “very well. I’m a reasonable man, Armando. I’ll tell the board not to review Mr. Riddle’s scholarship. But at the same time, I do not wish to see such an accident happen again.” 

“Absolutely,” said Dippet. “Tom?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Black,” came Tom’s modest, perfectly polite voice. “I’m grateful.” 

She was immersed in her thoughts when Dippet and Pollux Black pushed out of the door. She looked up, a bit startled. 

“Miss Starr?” Said Dippet, “what’re you doing here?” 

“I, um, I was having detention with Professor Slughorn, and he told me to deliver these potions to Madam Derwent,” said Hermione. “I was just waiting here. I didn’t want to barge in when you were talking.” 

“Well, now you can go ahead,” said Dippet kindly.

“Hermione, dear,” Mr. Black nodded at her graciously. “I do wish you've forgiven me for not coming to visit after you recovered. I was abroad at the time.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Hermione stiffly, “it’s all right, Mr. Black.”

He smiled, “I look forward to having you over this summer.”

“Of course.” Replied Hermione, not sure what he meant. 

He left with Dippet. 

Hermione drew a deep breath, and walked into the hospital wing. 

“Oh, Miss Starr,” said Madam Derwent brightly, hurrying towards her. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Hermione walked through the room, deliberately not looking Tom’s way. 

“I’d do this myself if I could, but I have to leave for a meeting now,” the school matron said, gathering her notebook and robes, “could you leave the potion in the cupboard? You’ll see the labels on the shelves.”

“Ok.” 

“Thank you, Miss Starr,” Madam Derwent smiled and left. The door closed behind her. 

Hermione walked towards the cupboard and did what she was told. 

The hospital wing was very quiet. There was nobody else but she and Tom. Sunshine, thin and wintry, fell on the stone floor through the large windows. From the corner of her eyes, she cast a stealthy glance at Tom. He seemed to be asleep. 

She slowed down and looked at him again.

Having no idea why, she walked up to his bed. The old brown satchel dropped from her hand to the floor. 

She wondered just how serene he looked in sleep. His breaths were even and slow. His black hair wasn't as neat as they usually were; instead they were mussed up. She sat down on the edge of his bed carefully, tucking one leg under her. One of his hands rested on his chest. She looked at that ugly Gaunt ring. It was proof that he already killed his family. 

Was that just an old ugly ring, or he had already made it into a Horcrux?

Slowly, as if it was out of her control, her hand reached out for the Gaunt ring and - 

She gasped when he suddenly moved and seized her hand. She looked up, mouth half open in surprise; his stormy eyes were staring at her. 

“What’re you doing?” He asked sharply. 

“Were you pretending to be asleep?” She shot back hotly, her voice raised a pitch. She tried to pull her hand back but was unsuccessful. 

“I thought that was the best way to avoid an awkward situation.” 

“I was-”

“-here to gloat?” He glared. “I suppose you’ve heard the entire humiliating conversation between me and your future father in-law?” 

His voice was venomous and spiteful. 

“There’s nothing humiliating about receiving scholarships, Riddle,” she said calmly after a heart beat. “I’m glad you’re alive.” 

He sniggered, “here cries the crocodile.” 

“I’m only glad because I don’t want to be sent to Azkaban,” said Hermione coldly. “If you were dead I’d dance on your grave.” 

“Finally, a moment of honesty between us. How very heart-warming,” said Riddle from gritted teeth. “Now get out.” 

“You still have my hand.” 

He dropped her hand with a scoff. He looked at her in derision; his dark eyes, endlessly deep as usual, flickered slightly. 

“You don’t remember anything before your death,” he said slowly, menacingly. 

“Near death,” she corrected automatically. “And you’re wrong. I remember.” 

“Then answer me a question and prove me wrong. Where exactly did we fuck on last year's Halloween?” 

He moved up closer to her. She gulped nervously and averted her eyes from him. 

“Answer. The. Question.” He hissed near her ear. His hand found her chin and turned her face back to him. 

“If this is your new tact to entice me, it’s not working,” she said quickly, slapping his hand away. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said icily. “Let’s just establish two basic facts. First, I know you’re not Hermione Starr -"

"No-" she began to argue. 

"Don’t bother," he interjected impatiently. "Just do me a favour and don’t insult my intelligence. And second, I'm not interested in fucking _you_. Is that clear?”

Hermione glared at him, fuming.

“However,” he continued rather cooly, “what I saw in your brain did give me a new lead. You can keep pretending, but not for long. I will find out your little secret soon.”

_He's bluffing._

“Well good luck with that," hissed Hermione viciously. "I hope you’ll enjoy the disappointment.”

She wanted to make a lunge at him and strangle him. Punch him, claw him, tear him apart. Anything physical. Somehow he had successfully brought out the worst in her. Something _really, really dark._ She didn't understand why. She rarely get violent. Not like this. It scared her. 

“It was in the greenhouse,” he said softly. A gorgeous evil grin lit up his face and caught Hermione off-guard.

“ _What?_ ” 

“I fucked her in Greenhouse Seven,” he said hoarsely, his head slightly tilted and that grin deepened. “On the cold stone floor between the shelves of potted belladonna and nightshade. She screamed louder than a bloody mandrake.”

Hermione was utterly convinced that he was _the devil._ His voice had a strange, hypnotizing effect on her. She went into a zone with him. She just wanted to beat him in this power game. Logic ceased to exist. She had to get the better of him. 

“Greenhouse _Seven," s_ he said with a little scoff, a derisive smile curved the corners of her delicate lips, "isn't that the most powerfully magical number?”

He looked at her, gobsmacked; he dropped all his masks. Curiosity was dripping out of him. In his black eyes there was a deep, vast, lonely ocean. 

“Why did you say that?” He asked in a quiet, deadly voice. 

“I…” Hermione broke out of her trance, "nothing. I guess seven is my lucky number."

"Have I told you that you're an awful liar?" he said angrily. 

She shivered a little, and looked up at him. For a fleeting, infinitesimal moment, a trembling light rippled behind those dark tunnels and he seemed lost, broken even. 

She stared at him, taken aback and enthralled. It was too human for him. Way too human. 

“Why do you look at me like that?” He asked suddenly. 

“Like what?” She broke out of her trance. 

“Like you’re feeling _sorry_ for me,” he said in pure disgust and spite that contorted his face. "How dare you?" 

What happened next was too quick for her to remember how - he reached for his wand and she reached for hers. 

“ _Expellia-_ ”

He blocked it effortlessly. “You won’t get me twice,” he said viciously. “ _Alarte Ascendare!_ ” 

She was sent flying across the room. She scrambled back to her feet, her head hurt acutely. 

Hermione shot out a nonverbal spell to lock his tongue, but he blocked it again. Then he shot her a hot red light which she dodged deftly. 

“ _Confringo!_ ” 

“ _Finite!_ ” 

They shouted at the same time.

The lights from their wands met mid-air and sent an empty hospital bed flying to the ceiling. Part of the wall collapsed on them and they rolled away together. Riddle’s head hit the floor. Bits of wallpaper and stones rained on them. 

Hermione looked up, brushing the thick, chocolate curls to the back of her shoulders and realized that she was sitting right on top of him. 

Tom opened his eyes, his hair sprinkled with dust. Both panting heavily, their heated eyes met in silence. Neither of them spoke in the next few seconds. They simply glared at each other angrily.

The air tensed between them to the point Hermione couldn’t breathe properly anymore. Her heart began pounding violently when he suddenly rolled over and pinned her to the floor instead. But he did it nimbly, almost gently and did not hurt her. He lowered his head and stopped only an inch away from her face; his breath, warm, minty and slightly trembling, fell into her parted lips.

It felt _good._ So fucking good that her blood had at last boiled to the point where common senses and logic were burned to ashes in the soul-consuming fire of lust and desire. 

She licked her lips without realizing it, her eyes locked with his. 

Silence. Dead silence. She could almost hear the sparks in the air crack. It was _catastrophic_.

He let out a thready, husky sigh; his eyes darted down to her lips. There was a strange, tormented look in his face.

“Push me away," he growled. 

Hermione reached out a hand, pulled him down and kissed him. 

She closed her eyes and drown. 


	8. Beyond Death

His kisses were forceful and intrusive. He tasted like sin and depravity but she sank into it regardless like a collapsing star consumed by a black hole - It wasn’t like she could help it. Nothing, not even the lights in her heart, could escape or resist such devouring force. 

They stumbled to the nearest hospital bed and fell into the mattress. He licked and sucked every part of her mouth greedily like a ravenous animal. It hurt a bit, but the pain felt vague when the huge waves of pleasure pounded in her blood and soul with a deafening, resonating roar.

But her senses found her when he pulled down her knickers roughly.

”No,” she said, breathless and erratic. What the fuck was she doing?

“Fucking hell,” he mumbled; suddenly he dropped her and left the bed, turning his back on her and raked a hand into his hair.

She sat up and got back on her feet. There was a strange yearning between her wobbly legs and she swayed on her heels. 

Tom didn't look at her; he simply turned around and headed towards the bathroom. 

“I don’t know what happened. That was a mista-” She began.

“That did _not_ happen,” he snapped sharply, and slammed the bathroom door with a angry bang. 

Hermione picked up her wand and began fixing the blasted hospital wing. And when she was done, he was still in the bathroom.

She left the hospital wing without a word. 

***

She splashed cold water into her face in the lavatory. Her hair was a mess. She had to apply a generous amount of Bitterroot Balm to her swollen lips. Then she sat in a cubicle sulkily, waiting for her lips to go back to normal. 

Now that the maddening heat had receded - thank Merlin - she wanted to bang her head into the wall. Fury, mortification and horror consumed her when she thought about the way they kissed. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be real. She was definitely losing her fucking mind here.

It was _nothing_. Nothing but lust and a moment of weakness. He was messing with her mind and that was all. 

_Compartmentalization_ , she thought as she drew a few deep breaths. _Sort out your priorities and get your shit together._

It was lunch break when she headed towards Dumbledore’s office. 

She walked down an empty corridor on the third floor, took a turn and rapped on a wooden door.

“Come in please,” said his placid voice. Hermione turned the bronze door knob and walked in. 

Dumbledore looked at her from behind a large, mahogany desk with a faint smile. He put down a quill and nodded, “you’re on time, Miss Starr. Have a seat. Would you like some sherbet lemon?” 

There was a glass jar of sweets on his desk next to the blotter. Hermione pulled out the chair and sat down. “No, but thank you, sir,” she said politely.

“I have to say you did an outstanding job in your essay on human transfiguration last week, Miss Starr,” said Dumbledore casually, and looked at her with his clear blue eyes. “I’m especially impressed by your knowledge about the werewolves.” 

_Well_ , she thought, amused. _That’s because I happen to know one._

“Professor,” she blurted out, wringing her fingers on her knees nervously. “I’m not Hermione Starr. My name is Hermione Granger. I went - or will go to Hogwarts in the year of 1991 when you are the headmaster. Please, I need your help. I don’t know what happened to me - my friends…we’re in a war and you’re….you’re-” 

You’re dead. 

A huge lump appeared in her throat and suddenly it was impossible to talk anymore. She hadn’t actually cried since she woke up in Hermione Starr’s body two months ago. It was the first time she ever talked about it with someone. It felt oddly satisfying, and at the same time all the fear and stress she’d been bottling up seemed to have reached the point of erupting. 

She clapped her mouth with both hands and muffled a sob. 

“Here you go,” Dumbledore conjured a white handkerchief from thin air, “I’ll go make some tea.” 

He walked away, opening a small door on the side and vanished behind it. Hermione knew he was doing this to give her some time alone, and she was grateful. She didn’t particularly wish to break down in front of a professor. 

When Dumbledore returned with a steaming teapot on a tray, Hermione already calmed down. She folded up the tear-stained handkerchief and stuffed it into her pocket.

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk again, conjured two delicate white china teacups with rose patterns. 

After a few sips from the tea she felt much better. The tea was hot, smooth, and had a light floral flavour. She placed the teacup back on the desk, cupped it with both hands and felt the heat in her palms. It soothed her nerves. Her hands had gone icy-cold and were shaking slightly because of the emotional upheaval she just had. 

“I heard what happened to you last semester,” said Dumbledore, “I’m very sorry about that. And I’m glad that you had a full recovery." 

“Hermione Starr didn’t recover, sir. She died.” Said Hermione flatly.

Dumbledore looked at her with a thoughtful, quizzical expression. His eyes were calm and penetrating. 

Taking in a deep breath, she started explaining everything from the beginning. She stuttered and hesitated a little at first; her voice sounded uncertain, but after a few minutes everything was pouring out of her naturally and eagerly. 

When she was done - which was almost half an hour later - Dumbledore didn’t speak immediately. She could tell that he was thinking. 

“I would say this is highly irregular, Miss Granger,” he said at last. “But I believe you.”

“Thank you, sir.” She said anxiously, “what should I do now? How do I get back?” 

“I’ll have to do some research and investigation, but first, there’re a few questions I want to ask you,” he looked at her, fingers crossed under his chin. “Has anybody suspected that you’re not Miss Starr?” 

Hermione gulped. “Yes,” she said. “Just one. But he doesn’t know I’m from fifty years later. His last theory was that I took Polyjuice Potion.” 

“I assume this person you spoke of is Mr. Riddle. Is that the real reason he used Legilimency on you?" 

"Yes," Hermione nodded, not at all surprised by how fast Dumbledore connected this with that accident. 

"And people have noticed that you’re acting differently?” 

"Yes,” said Hermione. “But I have no choice. I couldn’t stay in a room for the last two months and not interact with anyone. I had to come to Hogwarts so that I could meet you. And when I came here you were away...” 

She tried not to sound like she was blaming him. She knew it wasn’t his fault. 

“Indeed…indeed,” mused Dumbledore. “You mentioned that you and Miss Starr have similar features?" 

"Yes," said Hermione. "She's a bit shorter than I am. But the resemblance in our faces are striking." 

"Do you happen to have any family connection with the Starrs?" 

"Not that I know of." She said, "I don't know anything about her parents. When I woke up I was in her uncle's house."

"Well, I can fill you up," said Dumbledore. "Miss Starr's parents were killed by Vinda Rosier ten years ago. They were traveling in Europe, and got caught up in a crossfire between Grindelwald's followers and the Aurors." 

"Vinda Rosier?" 

"She is Graham Rosier's second cousin, I believe," said Dumbledore. "But they're not close. Anyway, back to Miss Starr's parents. From what I know, her mother Amelia Rosier was Graham's little sister. But she married a man against her family's will and was disowned many years ago. Her father, Maximillian Starr, was a half-blood wizard." 

"Half-blood?" 

"Yes. I was rather fond of Max, actually," Dumbledore smiled. "Max’s father was a muggle. And his mother was the only known descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw." 

Hermione nodded. So that was how Hermione Starr got her Ravenclaw heritage! 

"If Starr's mother was disowned, how come Graham Rosier and his wife decided to take her in?" Asked Hermione. 

"I don’t know. Perhaps they didn't want her to end up in an orphanage, or perhaps Graham was sad about his sister's death," said Dumbledore. "Miss Starr grew up in Rosier Park since she was six. I believe Graham has grown quite fond of her. He arranged a very good marriage for her, hasn't he?" 

"I'm aware of that," said Hermione sulkily. 

"Do you think it is possible that you could be related with Hermione Starr?" Dumbledore asked. 

She thought carefully with a frown. 

"My parents are both muggles," she said. "As far as I know they have zero connection or knowledge of the wizarding world. But since you mentioned Hermione Starr's grandfather is a muggle, there could be a possibility. My mother did mention once -"

She stopped abruptly; her mouth popped open as a sudden realization dawned on her.

"My mother did mention that they named me after someone they found in an old family tree," she said, a bit breathless. "She said she didn't know anything about _that Hermione_ except that she died very young. Probably during the Blitz. I don't remember what her last name is."

"When Max and Amelia were alive, they were very close to their muggle side of the family. It is entirely possible that their daughter's birth was recorded by the muggles."

She stared at Dumbledore with widened eyes. "Even if I do have a connection with Hermione Starr, how did my consciousness transfer into her body?" She asked, "how is it even possible?" 

"That is what I intend to find out," said Dumbledore thoughtfully.

“It’s not just time traveling, is it?” 

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Dumbledore shook his head slightly. 

“But I can go back, right?” She asked, her voice scared and slightly trembling, “I’m not trapped here forever?” 

“Oh Miss Granger, nothing lasts forever.” smiled Dumbledore. “But yes, you can go back. I’m fairly certain of that.” 

Hermione felt a huge stone was just lifted from her chest and she was beaming through tears without realizing it. “Oh thank Merlin,” she said, relieved and overjoyed, “I think I’m going crazy here.” 

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?” Asked Dumbledore.

“Um,” Hermione hesitated. “I’m not sure. I already told you what happened fifty years later with Voldemort. If I tell you he's living amongst us right now, and you should probably hunt him down and throw him in jail when you can, will that help? Or will that entirely alter the future and I wouldn't exist anymore in my time?” 

“Well, sounds like you are familiar with the basic laws of time travel, Miss Granger. It's too late to worry about that. I'm afraid history has already been rewritten since the moment Miss Starr came back to life."

Hermione stared at him in fear. "So you're saying I already don't exist anymore," she said, a bit startled. 

“You're half correct and half mistaken,” said Dumbledore in a calm, soothing voice. “When you woke up in Miss Starr's body, a different timeline had been set off and now we’re in a different dimension.Time and space are the most curious topics, aren’t they? Back in your timeline, Hermione Starr died at sixteen. But now, for some mysterious reasons, your soul gifted her a second life. It has changed everything. What you know about the future isn't our future anymore." 

It took Hermione half a minute to process what she just heard. 

“A different dimension?” She repeated. 

“Or an alternate universe,” said Dumbledore. “And this is the reason I do not wish to know which one amongst us turned into the dangerous dark wizard - what does he call himself again?" 

"Voldemort." 

"Right," Dumbledore let out a short chortle, "dramatic fellow isn't he?" 

"Quite," Hermione chuckled as well.

"Human hearts are as complicated as the cosmos itself. You’ll never know what a slightest change of mind could take you, Miss Granger," smiled Dumbledore. “I’m afraid learning the future in your timeline will only help my presumptions and prejudices grow, and cloud my best judgements.”

“I don’t understand. You don’t even want to know just for precaution?”

“No,” said Dumbledore firmly. "You see, Miss Granger, nothing is set in the stone. Do not act out of fear for what hasn't happened yet. That is how people usually create their own enemies.” 

“But professor,” she said slowly. The tea cup was now stone cold in her hands. “What if I know that he has already done something bad...evil?" 

"I'd be _very_ careful of the serious accusations you're about to bring up. Not without concrete evidence." 

"Not even my memories about what you said yourself in the future?" 

"That is not my future," he said wisely.

Hermione felt that her head was just about to explode. She needed a moment to think. 

"So what happens now?" She asked, "how do I go back?" 

"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do before we find out what magic brought you here," said Dumbledore. "I'll keep you updated, Miss Granger. Meanwhile, I suggest you keep your true identity hidden and get on with life." 

"But I'm in a hurry to leave!" She said, almost crying again. "Ron and Harry - my friends need me! We're at a critical point of a war and I can't possibly leave them..." 

"A Gryffindor, aren't you?" Smiled Dumbledore, his blue eyes bright and astute. “Don’t worry. You’re not the only dimension traveller I know. When they go back, they go back to the exact moment they vanish.” 

"That’s good to know,” said Hermione, relieved. 

“Do you have any other questions?” 

“Yes, Professor. Just one," said Hermione hesitatingly. "When Riddle invaded my brain, he only saw my memories after I woke up in Starr's body. Why?" 

"As powerful as Legilimency can be, it has one fatal flaw," said Dumbledore incisively. "Have you wondered why this spell doesn't work on ghosts? If you want to extract memories from ghosts, Legilimency is just as useless as Veritaserum." 

"Flesh connection," Hermione said immediately. "Legilimency is based on flesh connection like most spells intended for investigation, control and torture!" 

"Precisely," nodded Dumbledore in approval, "you have a sharp mind, Miss Granger. Am I also this impressed with you in your timeline?" 

Hermione flushed a little.

"Do not fret. Things will work out eventually. They always do," said Dumbledore quietly. "Perhaps you're sent here for a reason, and only you can discover it." 

"A reason?" Asked Hermione, baffled. 

"Well," Dumbledore tossed a sherbet lemon into his mouth and beamed at her. "Just a gut feeling."

***

Hermione barely looked at where she was going when she left Dumbledore’s office. When she slipped into Slughorn’s class in the dungeon, she was too preoccupied in her thoughts and almost knocked over Olive’s cauldron. 

She apologized absently, paying no attention to what Olive said back to her. 

Hermione sat down, fumbled in her bag and pulled out _Advanced Potion-Making._ Then she sank back into her thoughts.

Even Dumbledore didn’t know what magic brought her here. It was dark magic, she was certain of it. When it came to spiritual possession it was mostly likely involved with dark arts. But spiritual possession across different dimensions? She had never heard of such a thing before. She should go to the library. 

She didn’t know how long it was going to take Dumbledore to figure things out. But she felt better now that she wasn’t completely alone in this anymore. 

And if Hermione Starr was indeed related to her, there might be a deeper reason why she was here. But what could it be? 

“Ah, Miss Starr,” said Slughorn after the bell rang, “would you care to join us for dinner tomorrow evening? It’s just a few people. Nothing too grand. I’m sure your presence would light up the room." 

“No,” she said quickly. “Sorry, I can’t go, sir. I have other plans.” 

Slughorn looked disappointed. 

She wandered into the Great Hall. Alphard tried to talk to her at dinner but her mind was miles away.

“Are you still angry with me?” He asked, a little frustrated. “Look, Hermione, I’m terribly sorry for what I said at breakfast…” 

She didn’t even remember what he said. 

“I’m not angry with you,” she dropped her knife and fork. “I’m just…preoccupied."

"Is everything all right?" 

"Will you please just leave me alone?” 

She picked up her bag and ran out of the Great Hall. 

She headed to the library. She found some books on dimension travelling and walked towards her usual seat habitually - which was also the seat she and Tom sat when they did Divination homework together. 

She sat down and opened a book. But somehow, for the first time in her life, she found it impossible to focus on reading. Her mind kept wandering back to this morning when she and Tom fought in the hospital wing and kissed. The conflicted, tormented look in his eyes...

 _Tom. Tom. Tom._ Her quill scratched over a piece of parchment and scribbled his name over and over again.

"Starr?" Said a surprised voice from behind. She looked up and saw the face of Abraxas Malfoy. He approached her with a crooked grin, and leaned against her desk casually. 

"Since when do you spend Friday evenings in the library?" He arched an eyebrow. Then he looked down at the parchment in front of her. She snatched it away quickly but he already saw what she wrote. He let out a sharp laugh; Mrs. Wylie, the librarian, shot him a warning look. 

"For fuck’s sake! Are you still moping over Riddle?" he sniggered. "I do feel sorry for Alphard. He's convinced you've changed, but I don't think so."

"It's not what you think," said Hermione irritably. 

"Oh I know exactly what this is," he sat down next to her and lowered his voice. “You’re being incredibly stupid. Do you remember the first time we met? You were six, just sent to your uncle’s house after your parents died. God, you were such an unpleasant, sickly thing! You came to the Manor for my mum’s garden party. Druella and I pranked on you to make you cry. Dru hated you. She thought you stole away her father’s attention,” he scoffed. “When your new dress was ruined, your aunt scolded you. Cygnus and Walburga knew it was us, but they didn’t say anything. You remember who told the truth and saved your neck? It was Alphard, that idiot. Always feel like doing the right damn thing.” 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“My point is that you do not deserve Alphard,” drawled Malfoy sullenly. “He is a moron but he’s been my mate since we were toddlers. And I watch out for him.” 

“I don’t know what you’re-” 

“Oh quit it! You know bloody well what I’m talking about." said Malfoy hotly. "Stay away from Tom Riddle. He's dangerous. I thought you'd smarten up after what happened. You almost died because of him. What the hell are you thinking about?” 

Hermione averted her look from him. Her attention was grabbed instantly by the two large old books Malfoy put on the table. 

"Are you checking these out?" She asked sharply. 

Malfoy seemed confused about the sudden change of topic. "Yeah," he said, waving a hand in the air casually. “It’s for Tom. He's bored in the hospital wing." 

"Did he tell you to get them?” 

“Oh yes, he's very exacting," said Malfoy. "Odd choices though. I've got no earthly clue why he's into this rubbish..." 

Hermione wasn't listening to him anymore. Fear seized her when her eyes fell on the dark leather covers of the two books- 

_World Beyond Death - An Advanced Study on Astral Realm._

_Various Forms of Spiritual Possession - Necromancy and Other Dark Arts._


	9. His Rival

“Tom!” Someone pulled open his bed curtains, “fuck me, are you still sleeping? Slughorn’s been asking about you!” 

Tom opened his eyes, exhausted and sore. “What time is it?” He mumbled, grimaced at the bright sunshine pouring into the dorm, “for fuck’s sake, Abraxas! Shut the bloody curtains!” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I said shut the curtains!” 

“All right, all right, no need to yell,” grunted Abraxas Malfoy and waved his wand. The magical sunshine outside of the underground Slytherin dorm disappeared. “It’s not real sun anyway. It’s almost lunch time. You missed two classes. Are you ill?” 

“What?” Tom checked his watch on the bedside table. “Oh shit!” 

He rolled out of his bed, grabbed a nightgown and walked into the bathroom. Stepping into the shower, he closed his eyes and felt his tense muscles relaxed in the hot water. He couldn’t believe that he overslept. He went to bed around nine last night and now it was almost twelve. 

He was having nightmares again. 

Every night in his sleep, he walked down that moonlit lane in little Hangleton with Morfin Gaunt’s wand in hand, reveling in the sweet thrill of murder. The fragrance of wild bluebell was warm and spicy; it made him feel drunk. There was this strange, glorious clarity on his mind. He felt invincible. He was on top of the world. 

But last night in his dream, when he went back into the Gaunt hovel, the unconscious person lying on the floor wasn’t Morfin; it was Hermione Starr. Pale and fragile, she stared at him with her dead eyes. There was a serene, angelic smile on her cold lips. Her long brown hair pooled around her head like a puddle.

“Tom?” Someone called from outside. He looked up and saw two little kids, gaping inside behind the filthy window. 

Tom remembered them. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, the damn kids from the orphanage he used to taunt when he wasn’t happy with them. 

“Tom,” they giggled together. “Come play with us. Come play with us in the cave.” 

_Salazar’s fucking_ -

He turned off the shower with a jerk. 

He pressed his forehead against the steamy porcelain tiles and used Occlumency to compartmentalize his memories. He sorted these dreams into a small drawer and shut it close. He did it with too much force that his head throbbed with pain when he walked out of the bathroom. But he didn’t care. Because he was better. He was himself again. 

It was good - _way too good_ \- not to feel. Feeling was such a pathetic weakness that he so detested and despised. 

These dreams weren’t natural. The urge to touch her and taste her wasn’t natural. 

It was as if he was _cursed._

He changed into his robes and left the Slytherin dorm. 

***

It was in the middle of March already. The storms quieted down and the weather was getting better. The people inside of the castle generally cheered up except the fifth years and seventh years, who were about to get on the chopping blocks of O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts. 

She was seeing Alphard much less. Being the Quidditch captain and studying for the upcoming N.E.W.Ts, he was having trouble juggling with his heavy workload. But he still managed to find some time for Hermione. Last weekend he took some time out of his impossibly busy schedule and went to Hogsmeade with her even though she told him a hundred times that he didn’t have to. 

When they walked into Honeydukes, Hermione quickly searched the entire store to make sure that Tom Riddle wasn’t inside. It had become her habit to do so whenever she walked into a place in the past two weeks. She had been avoiding him since what happened in the hospital, and, to her relief, she noticed that he was doing the same. When they passed each other or sat in the same class, they both chose to completely ignore each other as if there was some sort of tacit understanding. 

“Hermione,” said Alphard, a bit hesitating, “I heard that you went to the hospital to see him.” 

They were standing in front of a crowded shelf full of toffees and chocolates. Hermione was picking from a bucket of huge lollipops. “I don’t know you listen to stupid gossips,” she said absently. 

“Sorry,” said Alphard with a little chuckle. He put an arm behind Hermione’s back when a group of noisy third years pushed into the shop. “It’s just…given what happened last year, I’m worried.” 

Hermione pretended to be focusing on the lollipops, but a sting of guilt ached inside of her. It annoyed her. She hated this feeling. It wasn’t like she was actually engaged to him. But still, knowing him for the past few months had made it increasingly difficult to neglect his feelings. She was, against her own wishes, starting to see him as a friend. 

“Alphard,” she rose up and faced him. Her long brown curls fell around her Ravenclaw scarf messily. “I’m not in love with him. I know he’s dangerous, and I don’t want _anything_ to do with him. I’m sorry for whatever happened before. I really am. Now can we drop this and never bring it up again?” 

He stared at her, rather taken aback by the frankness in her tone.

“Sounds good,” he said, smiling. “Let’s not bring it up again.” 

It was around five in the afternoon when they went back to the castle with pockets full of sweets. Hermione dropped a few packs of Every Flavour Beans to the floor at the entrance of the Great Hall. Alphard bent down to pick them up for her. 

“I saw your dad,” she said. “Did I mention it?” 

“No,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “When did that happen?” 

“Outside of the hospital wing. I was there to run an errand for Slughorn,” Hermione shrugged, stuffing the sweets back to her pockets. “He…um, he said he was looking forward to having me over this summer. What’s that about?” 

“Oh, that,” said Alphard. “You’re going to stay with us this summer at Grimmauld Place. You don’ t remember?”

“What? Why?” 

“Family tradition,” chuckled Alphard. “My mother wants to torture you.” 

“With what?” 

“Lessons about how to become a proper lady of a Black household.” 

“Oh God,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “You’re serious?” 

“I am. Very much so. You’ve got to learn the obnoxious details of all sorts of social events, and how to manage a wizarding estate. Mum will show you _the book_ and make you remember everything.” 

“What book?” 

“The Book of Abomination. The Black Bible. The ultimate guide of becoming a dreadful, stately married witch.” He laughed, his grey eyes lively and danced with mischief. 

“All right. I get it. Can you get me out of it?” She said irritably. 

“Sorry, I can’t. I’ll be away in July.”

“How very gallant of you,” sulked Hermione. 

She did wonder if she should tell Alphard the truth. Because if Dumbledore figured out everything and sent her back, Hermione Starr might drop dead. How was Alphard going to deal with that? She didn’t know. She just couldn’t think about it right now. 

She looked at Alphard with melancholy and regret in her eyes. A bit wistful, even. But he seemed to have taken it in the wrong way. He reached out a hand and cupped her face, bent down his head and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek.

“It’s all right,” he said gently. “Don’t be sad. There’s a lifetime ahead of us, and we’re going to be very happy.” 

She swallowed, forcing back the uneasiness stirred up by his words.

“A lifetime is very long,” she said a bit irritably. “Don’t make promises like that.” 

“Why ever not?” 

“Because you don’t know,” she said sternly. “Anything could happen. Either of us could die tomorrow.” 

“That’s a profusely dark view of life,” he laughed, his finger twirled around a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Yes, king or peasant, we all end up in a box eventually. But it’s pointless to dwell on that. Life is about every waking moment, isn’t it?” 

“Thanks for the TED talk,” she said grimly. “But I’m afraid you’ve completely missed my point.” 

“Who’s Ted?” He asked suspiciously. 

Hermione laughed. Alphard looked at her in bewilderment, and she only laughed harder. 

A group of Slytherin boys walked past them. Tom Riddle led the gang with a poker face; he was immaculately dressed in shirt and tie, black robes and shiny shoes. The rest of the boys followed him - Lestrange, Avery, Nott, and a few others Hermione couldn’t name. They were all dressed up neatly as if they were about to attend a Ministry interview. 

Hermione’s laughter faltered at the sight of the youngest boy in that group. Straggled in the end, Felix Rosier, Starr’s thirteen-year-old cousin, was trotting to keep up.

Hermione had exchanged a few words with that little boy back in Rosier Park; she could sense that he wanted to talk more, but since she was still very much disoriented at the time, she avoided him and shut him out for her own safety. 

She watched Tom and his minions marching out of the Great Hall. He didn’t even cast a look at her direction. 

“Is that Felix?” She asked, a bit surprised. 

Alphard was looking at them with a scowl, but when he turned back to Hermione his face was back to normal. “Yes,” he said. “You don’t remember?” 

Hermione frowned at him, “what?” 

“It’s odd,” he said. “Just a few months ago, you were about to join them. It was as if that was the sole goal in your life and nothing could stop you. And Felix...how come you don’t remember what happened with him?” 

“I…” Hermione stammered, “I have some blurred parts in my memory. It’s the side effects.” 

Alphard looked at her discerningly. 

“I didn’t want to say it because I was worried it might offend or upset you,” he said incisively. “But it’s quite obvious that you’re not the same person at all. I tried to tell myself it was the shock after everything that happened. But…”

He hesitated. 

“But what?” Asked Hermione. 

“Ready for the training, Al?” Said a loud voice and both of them jumped. Abraxas Malfoy popped out of nowhere, grinning a mean, lopsided smile at them. 

“Sod off,” said Alphard irritably. “I’m busy.” 

“Is that how you treat your mate when you’ve got a girl?” Said Abraxas teasingly. “You’re hurting me!” 

“Nobody cares about your precious feelings. Besides, the training isn’t going to start in half an hour!” 

“No,” said Abraxas, “but I’ve got to talk to you about something else.” 

“Can’t you talk later?” 

“No,” said Abraxas, and then he lowered his voice, leaning forward and said in a serious tone, “it’s about Riddle. He’s up to something. I’m fucked.” 

Hermione scowled at him. “What d’you mean?” She asked quickly.

“Don’t concern your pretty little head, love,” drawled Abraxas.

Hermione glared at him madly. 

Abraxas dragged Alphard away from her rudely, “see you later!” 

***

The next few days Hermione never got a chance to speak to Alphard or Malfoy again. 

On Tuesday morning she went to History of Magic with Myrtle. When they sat down together and took out the books, Hermione suddenly remembered something. 

“Myrtle,” she said in a careful, rather solemn tone. “Listen, I need you to promise me something.” 

“What is it?” She said. 

“Don’t ever, ever use the girl’s lavatory on the second floor. Do you understand me?” 

Myrtle looked at her, confused. “But that is the closest one between most of our classes in the day time-” 

“No, Myrtle, you don’t use it even if your bladder is about to explode. Go to the one on the third floor,” said Hermione. “Do you hear me?” 

The seriousness in her voice startled Myrtle. 

“Promise me,” said Hermione. 

“Um, all right, Hermione,” said Myrtle, still very much perplexed. “But why?” 

“Because…” Hermione sighed. At the same time she saw from the corners of her eyes that Tom Riddle just walked into the classroom with Lestrange. An idea came to her. “Because I heard some Slytherin boy likes to go there.” 

“What?” Myrtle almost shrieked, “why? Is he a pervert?” 

“Something like that,” said Hermione gravely. “Trust me. If you don’t want to suffer a horrible death, then promise me don’t go.” 

“Ok,” chuckled Myrtle, clearly thinking Hermione was joking, “I promise. Who is the pervert though?” 

“Don’t ask,” said Hermione darkly.

“Ok,” said Myrtle again with a frown. 

Riddle sat down a few tables away from them, dropping his bag under his seat. 

Hermione opened her notebook and cast him a quick look. He did not look very well. His skin was paler than usual, and the hollowness seemed to have grown deeper and darker in his eyes. He was in a bad mood. His sullenness was palpable. Nobody dared to speak to him, not even the Slytherin boys.

“All right,” said Professor Binns, “today we’re going to talk about alchemists. Who can tell me what alchemy is?” 

He looked around in the classroom, but most people seemed to be half-awake and listless. With a hopeful look on his face, he pointed at Tom, “Mr. Riddle? Perhaps you can enlighten us?” 

“Yes, professor,” said Tom. He seemed to have just pulled himself from some deep thoughts that had nothing to do with this class, but he managed to sound polite and calm. “Alchemy is the research into the reactions of various substances which can be traced back to the thirteenth century. The main purpose of most alchemists was the transmutation of the base metals, such as lead, into the noble metals, especially gold.” 

“Excellent, Mr. Riddle. Ten points to Slytherin,” said Binns. “‘ _All the world has heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his arts have made me_.' Can you tell me from whose book did I quote this sentence from?” 

“Bathilda Bagshot, sir,” said Tom. 

“Incorrect. Anybody else?” Professor Binns scanned around the classroom without much hope. If his star student couldn’t come up with the answer, he wasn’t expecting anything else. 

When Hermione’s hand shot into the air, he looked at her with shocking eyes. 

Hermione Starr got a D in History in O.W.Ls. She had no idea why she was even in this class in year six. Perhaps Pollux Black had something to do with it. So far, Hermione had played dumb in most classes in hope of staying in her character.

“Miss Starr?” Said Mr. Binns uncertainly, “do you have a question?” 

“No, sir, I have an answer,” she said crisply in a firm voice. “ _'All the world has also heard of his scholar, who, unawares, raised the foul fiend during his master’s absence, and was destroyed by him.'_ ” She recited the sentence following what Binns quoted almost automatically. “ _My Mortal Immortal_ by Mary Shelley. 1833.” 

Myrtle knocked her pencil case to the floor. She stared at Hermione with an open mouth. Almost everyone in the class woke up from their day dream and stared at Hermione as if they had just seen her battle a troll single-handedly. 

“Good gracious,” said Binns, “that is…well, brilliant. You’re the first student ever who answered this question correctly. Fifteen points to Ravenclaw.” 

Hermione couldn’t help but let a little smile curve her lips. From the corner of her eyes she saw Riddle pursed his lips in dismay.

“Well,” said Binns, “who can tell me why a book written by a renowned muggle writer has a place in the history of magic?” 

Hermione wasn’t going to bring any more attention to herself again. She knew it wasn’t a smart move, but when Riddle raised a hand languidly, he shot her a swift, challenging look. There was a hint of arrogance in his eyes. 

That was just insufferable. 

She shot up her hand again. 

“Very competitive of us today, aren’t we? Let’s hear both your answers and then decide which house shall receive the points,” chuckled the professor as if Christmas had come earlier, and then he nodded at Tom, “go ahead, Mr. Riddle.” 

“Because Mary Shelley was a witch, sir,” said Tom. His voice was cool and contained. “She attended Hogwarts, but her family kept it a secret because it was deemed scandalous. She wrote her first novel based on the inspirations she had from her magical education, and was an instant success in the muggle world.” 

“Very good. Miss Starr?” 

“What Riddle said was true,” said Hermione clearly, “but I think a more accurate and relevant answer should be about the book itself instead of the author’s life. _My Mortal Immortal_ is about the cursed life of a man named Winzy who lived for 323 years. Winzy drank an elixir made by the man he worked for, Cornelius Agrippa, while not fully aware of the purpose of the elixir. Winzy had to witness the death of Bertha, the only woman he’d ever loved, and slowly feel the heavy toll of age despite his youthful look. This story is important in the history of magic because such elixir isn’t just a myth. It exists, even though it is extremely rare.” 

Hermione came to a stop, and just realized that the entire class was looking at her with different levels of surprise and curiosity. Riddle, too, was looking at her with an irked scowl. 

“Looks like you’ve caught up with your readings this semester, Miss Starr,” said Binns, astonished. “Absolutely outstanding answer. Even I couldn’t have explained better. Twenty points to Ravenclaw. Last question, who is the last known alchemist in history and is still alive today?” 

Oh boy, Hermione smiled. She knew this one. 

“Nicolas Flamel,” she said immediately. 

“Terrific, Miss Starr,” beamed Professor Binns at her, “I believe you’ve found your true rival, Mr. Riddle. Have I told you? Miss Starr scored higher than you in last week’s essay on Saint Walpurgis.” 

Hermione’s ears went pink when Myrtle grinned at her in awe. “Great job!” She said heartily. 

“Did you see those Slytherins?” Said Olive excitedly when they walked out of the classroom after the bell rang, laughing, “they looked like they were slapped on the face!” 

“Can’t blame them,” said Myrtle, laughing as well. “Riddle’s always the top student. Now it’s time for them to reconsider which house is the best.” 

Tom shoved past her in large strides. He ignored Hermione again. But she didn’t care. She could tell that he was pissed just by the back of his head, and this fact alone cheered her up immensely.

Her good mood continued throughout the day until she saw Tom on top of the steps leading into the dungeon with his gang after dinner. Felix Rosier, Starr’s frail, pasty little cousin, was backed into a corner under a torch on the wall. He was shaking all over in tears. It looked like Tom was threatening him.

Hermione stopped hesitatingly and looked at them. Tom cast her a malignant glance, then walked away with Philip Lestrange, Theseus Nott and Joseph Avery. “Fucking little twat,” one of them cursed. Their black robes vanished at the turning of the cold stone steps. 

Felix looked up at Hermione, sobbing silently. 

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. “I’m really, really sorry. I told him everything.” 

After a short moment, Hermione placed a hand on Felix’s skinny arm. “Come here,” she said kindly, handing him a handkerchief. “Let’s go sit down somewhere. I...um, I’ll fix you some tea and biscuits.”

”Like we used to,” said Felix with a teary little smile.

Hermione paused a heart beat. “Right,” she said calmly, trying not to reveal any puzzlement. “Like we used to.” 


	10. Before the Storm

It took Felix fifteen minutes to stop crying in the Ravenclaw common room.

“I mean, he threatened me, you know?” Said Felix thickly through a mouthful of butter shortbread, spitting crumbs all over the fine, midnight blue velvet settee. “I didn’t know what to do. He fucked my brain and -”

“Language,” Hermione put on her big-sister face.

“Oh come on, you taught me that word when I was three.”

Oh dear lord. Hermione put a palm on her forehead.

“Can I have one of those?” said Felix, eyeing the chocolate frogs in Hermione's book bag. She got those with Alphard from Honeydukes the other day.

“No,” said Hermione ruthlessly. “You already ate an entire plate of biscuits plus all those toffees...”

“Hey, I’m traumatized today because of you. I deserve sugar!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and gave him more sweets. Then she cleared her throat, trying to bring the topic back to Riddle.

“What exactly did he threaten you for?”

“Hmm. ‘Tis good,” he said, both sides of his face bulging out, stuffed with chocolate.

“I swear to God, Felix Alexander Rosier-”

“What’re you middle naming me for?” He yelped, “d’ you want to traumatize me further?”

Hermione lost her patience. “Believe me,” she hissed. “I’m going to toss you out of the window if you deflect again. Now, for the last time. What did Tom Riddle ask you, and what did you tell him?”

Felix put down the bright purple wrapping paper of his chocolate frogs and folded it in his hands. He looked extremely uneasy.

“All right, if you have to know,” he mumbled. “He wanted to know my father and Healer Isowyre’s whereabouts when you were ill.”

“Why?” She said, bewildered.

“I don’t know,” he pondered. “Funny thing is, a few days ago, Professor Dumbledore asked me to go to his office. He wanted to know exactly the same things Tom asked me. He was a lot nicer than Tom, of course. Offered me tea and crumpets.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Well,” said Felix, a bit harassed. “I was taken home the next day after you tried to kill yourself. But I mostly stayed in my room. They didn’t even let me go near you. You were surrounded by healers. The house was in absolute chaos. The only thing I know is that my father had a couple of terrible rows in his study with Healer Isowyre.”

“What did they fight about?”

“I don’t know, and that was what I told them.” Felix shrugged. “Dumbledore let me go after I said I didn’t hear anything specific. But Tom -”

He groaned and rubbed his temples.

“He used Legilimency on you,” Hermione said sullenly. 

“Yes,” said Felix with a shudder. “He crushed my skull, forcing me to remember the details I didn’t even know I remembered. During one of their worst rows, my father said - and these are his words - _she can’t die. She absolutely can’t die._ _We have to bring her back no matter what._ And Isowyre told him that he was fucking mad.”

He paused, and buried his face in hands, taking in a shaky breath.

Hermione looked at him with quivering lips. “No matter what?” She repeated with trepidation.

“There’s more,” said Felix. “I…I saw Isowyre levitating a barrel of blood and a dead maid out of your room the night before you woke up. He met my father on the second floor flight. ‘ _It went wrong. Horribly wrong_ ’, Isowyre said. ‘ _I only wish I didn’t bring anything else back._ ’ And then my father saw me. I was too scared to move. He erased my memory…”

His voice broke off and buried his face in both hands again.

“Tom…” he choked out, “I don’t know how he did it. He restored what my father made me forget. When he was inside of my head, he was so forceful and it hurt so much…for a horrible moment I just wanted to die so that the pain would stop…”

Hermione put a hand on Felix’s shoulder gently. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

“What d’you reckon it means?” Said Felix in a trembling voice. His large, inky blue eyes glimmered in terror. “What happened in your room that night, Hermione? Why is everyone trying to-“

“ _Obliviate.”_

Came a cold, calm voice behind her. Felix’s eyes lost focus; the terror was gone. He looked ahead into the void as if he was set into a blessed daze.

Hermione turned around and saw Tom Riddle. His wand was tucked back into his robes. Nobody in the room saw what he just did.

She jumped up, reaching for her wand reflexively, but Tom grabbed her hand first. 

“Don’t,” he breathed a threat into her ear.

“How did you get in?” She asked angrily.

“If you wanted a safer tower, try using passwords like the other houses,” smirked Riddle.

“D’you want some chocolate, eh Tom?” Said Felix dreamily with a wide grin on his peaky face. “I have some left.”

“No, thanks,” said Riddle in a bored tone. His eyes darted towards Felix, “Let’s take you back. You don’t look well.”

”I’m fine-“

Tom let Hermione go. Then he grabbed Felix by an arm and pulled him up. They went across the room.

“Wait,” Hermione caught up with Tom, “you leave him alone, I’m warning you-”

Tom looked back with a hand at the door knob, and scoffed.

“Or what?” he said in derision. “You don’t have a clue what situation you are in, do you? I just did you a favour. Count yourself lucky.”

“What favour?” she said angrily. “Do enlighten me.”

“I thought you’d figure it out. Haven’t you been so eager to prove to me that you’re smarter?” 

“Unlike some,” she glared, “I’m not an expert in black magic.”

“Graham Rosier and his dark wizard friend - a rather incompetent one, I’m afraid - performed a poorly executed ritual to resurrect his niece, and it clearly didn’t work,” he took one step closer to her, eyes narrowing in menace, “what do you think happened instead?”

Hermione looked up at him; her throat felt dry.

“They summoned something else instead of Hermione Starr’s soul,” he said sharply. “I wonder what you are. A fiend? A lost soul from another time, another world?”

Blood had escaped from Hermione’s lips. When she first woke up, Isowyre was urging Graham to bury her. “What are you?” Was the question Isowyre asked before he freaked out and scampered out of her room. 

“You’re not a natural being,” he concluded, with emphasis on every word. His eyes glinted coldly like the black steel on a sharp blade. “You’re _a freak_. _A monster._ The result of a disastrous dark ritual. What do you think Dumbledore would do when he finds out the truth? Do you think he’d really help you? He loathes black magic!”

“That’s bollocks! Dumbledore will help me.”

“Go on. Do your own research if you don’t believe me,” he said mockingly. “Don’t forget to get a signature from Slughorn. You’ll have to use the restricted section.”

He opened the common room door.

“-know it’s the wrong answer!” Came Alphard’s shout, “just give me a different riddle to try then!”

He stopped yelling, and froze at the sight of Tom, Felix, and Hermione.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” His demanded, confused and startled. 

Felix grinned a sunny grin at him, “chocolate, Al?”

“We’re leaving,” Tom told Felix simply. Alphard stared at Tom furiously, balling his hands into fists. But Tom only cast him a cold glance before he walked away with a very giddy Felix hanging on his arm.

“What was Riddle doing here?” Alphard’s eyes flew back to Hermione.

“I...” she stammered. 

“I thought you said you didn’t want anything to do with him anymore!”

Hermione turned away from him and wiped a tear off her face. What she had just learned was not just shocking, but truly frightening. She didn’t have any spare energy to handle Alphard and all of his questions. Not when she was still quite shaken. But then she remembered what Dumbledore said. She should keep her identity intact. 

She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him. 

It felt surprisingly good to hug someone. Anyone who wasn’t constantly threatening her and playing games. Anyone that wasn’t a total jerk. A friend.

And the diversion strategy worked. Alphard tensed for a moment; it was the first time Hermione voluntarily hugged him. Then he wrapped both arms around her, pulling her deeper into himself.

His robes smelled like cedar wood and summer. 

***

“Oh shit,” said Olive gloomily, “Dumbledore is gone again! Is Dippet going to teach Transfiguration? I don’t know how to stay awake in his classes!”

“No,” said Alphard. He was a regular visitor at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall these days and people had gotten used to it. “Dippet doesn’t have time to teach. He’s busy with Wizengamot. My dad told me that they’ve just hired a new teacher.”

“A new teacher?” Exclaimed Adam Abbott.

“In the middle of a semester?” Cried Myrtle incredulously.

“Don’t worry,” said Alphard reassuringly. “She’s young, but a highly capable witch.”

“What’s her name?” Asked Olive curiously.

“McGonagall,” said Alphard.

Hermione knocked over her goblet and spilled all the pumpkin juice.

Alphard looked at her, a bit confused. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly. 

“A young prof, eh?” Grinned Adam, “is she pretty?”

Olive shot him a disgusted look.

“She’s married,” Alphard said with a chuckle. “My father had dinner with her last week after her job interview. Her husband was there too.”

“She’s your father’s friend?” Asked Olive.

“Not exactly. Her husband works in the Department of Magical Transportation and my father happens to know him.”

“Well that makes sense. You father has lots of investments in wizarding railways,” said Olive casually. It was the casualness in her voice that made Hermione cast her an odd look.

Olive pretended she didn’t notice it. 

Alphard gave a polite smile, “pass me the salt, will you? Does anyone want more eggs?”

Olive shrugged and passed him the salt. Then she turned around to speak with Adam and his friends. The topic about Alphard’s family was dropped.

“There she is,” Alphard looked at the High Table and told Hermione. “The new teacher.”

Hermione looked up and saw a much younger Minerva McGonagall. She almost didn’t recognize her. Dressed in neat green robes, she eased into a chair that Professor Binns courteously pulled out for her. She scanned around the Great Hall, Alphard gave her a friendly wave and she smiled back at him.

At the same time, Tom Riddle walked into the Great Hall, followed by his gang. Hermione looked up, and to her surprise, she spotted Abraxas Malfoy.

“Why is he with them?” She asked Alphard.

“Who?”

“Abraxas,” she frowned, “I thought he didn’t like Riddle.”

“You don’t need to know,” said Alphard.

“Last time he told you that Riddle’s up to something. That he needed to talk to you about it. What’s it about?”

“Can we not talk about it?” said Alphard a bit stiffly, folding up the newspaper. 

“I just don’t get it,” Hermione persisted. “What did he do to Abraxas? Is he safe?”

“Like I said,” said Alphard gloomily. “You don’t need to know.”

“Stop this protective crap,” she retorted hotly. “Tell me what happened. We’re taking about your best friend! How do you expect me just to drop it?”

“Abraxas wouldn’t tell me the details,” Alphard conceded reluctantly, his voice still stiff. “All I know was that Riddle wasn’t happy about the way Abraxas made fun of him, and he was determined to punish him for it,” the he lowered his voice. “Abraxas’s one of them now. The Knights of Walpurgis.”

“The Knights of Walpurgis,” she repeated. “That’s a mouthful.”

She didn’t know that Riddle’s gang went by this name at this time. Harry never mentioned it.

“Riddle has a tight control over his group,” said Alphard. “I don’t know for sure who’s in and who’s not. They’re quite secretive.”

“Is Felix in?”

Alphard shot her the oddest look.

“Hermione, Felix joined because of you,” he said, watching her carefully. “I tried to stop him. You hexed me for meddling.”

Hermione looked away from his eyes. His gaze was suddenly too much to bear. Meanwhile, she felt guilty for what happened to Felix, even though she wasn’t really responsible for it. 

“Why was Riddle with you last night?” He asked in a calm voice.

“Nothing,” said Hermione offhandedly. She was still thinking about Felix. 

“You don’t think a hug would make it go away, do you? Do you take me for a bloody moron?” There was a slight edge in his voice. Hermione looked up with a start. He’d never spoken to her like this before.

”Of course I don’t take you for a moron!” 

“Then for once in your life, would you do me the courtesy and be honest with me?”

“Felix was just visiting me. Riddle came to fetch him.”

Which was, technically, the truth. 

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re lying,” he said sharply.

“Alphard, you’re getting ridiculous.” She said, starting to get a bit angry. 

He got back to his feet. “I’ve got to go,” he said coldly. “See you later.”

She didn’t try to stop him. And when she looked back at the table, she just realized everyone was staring at her. 

“How much do I owe you now?” Said Adam to Olive. 

“Ten sickles,” said Olive. 

Hermione raised her eyebrows in question. Adam laughed. “We wagered how long it’ll take before you and Alphard begin fighting again.”

”Very funny,” said Hermione angrily. 

Myrtle rolled her eyes at Adam. “Pig.” 

Olive only laughed. Somehow she looked rather delighted. Myrtle gave her a sullen look, and muttered something under her breath. 

“What’s that?” Said Olive, scowling at Myrtle. 

”I said you don’t have to be such a jerk all the time,” said Myrtle, avoiding her eyes. 

“You’ve got a bit of mustard on those fat glasses,” said Olive sharply. “Why don’t you wash it off before someone mistakes it for shit again?” 

“Shut up, Olive,” said Hermione. And then she turned to Myrtle, who was crying now. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

***

Hermione hadn’t heard from Dumbledore since their meeting.

She understood that his plate was full because there was a war going on the other side of the Channel, but she really hoped at least he’d let her know that he summoned Felix to his office for questions.

The logical part of her brain told her that sometimes people make decisions based on information she didn’t have. She shouldn’t judge Dumbledore without seeing the full picture.

But still…why did he keep her out of this?

No! Damn it, she cursed inwardly. _I’m not going to let Riddle’s venom get to me. He’s like the devil, spreading flames of paranoia and planting seeds of evil. He brings out the worst of me!_

She spent the entire Monday evening in the library, Tuesday as well, researching necromancy fervently. She had taken Tom’s suggestion of getting a signature from Slughorn. He was correct. All the books she needed were in the restricted section.

A few times, in the last half an hour before the library closed, there was nobody but her and the Grey Lady, ghost of Ravenclaw, sitting in the library. Hermione sensed a few times that the Grey Lady was eyeing her stealthily as if she wanted to talk; but when Hermione looked up, the ghost had looked away in her usual indifferent, haughty manner. 

Hermione ignored her. She was too occupied to care about a ghost’s mood right now. 

After a few days of fruitless searching, she remembered the books Abraxas Malfoy checked out for Tom. So she went to search for them. When she sat down and opened _Various Forms of Spiritual Possession - Necromancy and Other Dark Arts_ , which was the only copy existed in the library, a small note fell out from between the leather cover and the first page.

She picked it up, and saw Riddle’s slanted, elegant hand -

_“Page 157.”_

She frowned in annoyance. But it wasn’t completely unexpected - he knew that she’d eventually come across this book, so he had left this note to taunt her.

She turned to page 157, and began to read:

_“Life and death, old as our very existence, constitute the foundation of the balance of nature, and henceforth, the balance of magic. Such balance, as is explained in detail in the previous chapters already, shall not be tampered lightly._

_“Based on the ground that no mortals can command death, attempts to raise the dead, also known as necromancy, is essentially bargaining with Death. The most commonly used practice was blood sacrifice. ‘A life for a life’. However, such practice requires powerful necromancy rooted in dark magic, and it could easily go wrong._

_“Even if one did succeed in bringing back the right soul, the previously deceased would not be fully alive again. It would be a shadow, a mere wrath inside of a physical vessel._

_“In the astral plane, souls, demons and all roaming beings wander randomly. If the ritual went wrong, the repercussions are grave. Summoning a demon into a physical body could cause the most abhorrent consequences imaginable._

_“In the astral realm, time and space do not flow the way one is used to in the world of substance. It is a dark territory of which very little is known. However, some researchers have reasons to believe that the ‘tethered souls’ tend to be drawn to each other in the world beyond death. When necromancy goes wrong, the soul that ended up being summoned is, in most cases, tethered to the deceased by either blood or love._

_“Necromancy cannot be reversed by another ritual. According to the Dark Arts Regulation Act passed by Wizengamot in 1775, all forms of necromancy are illegal and shall be put on trial. The punishment is severe as the unforgivable curses - life sentence in Azkaban._

_“All dark creatures raised from the dead - demon, right or wrong soul - shall be disposed of immediately at the authority of the Department of Mysteries. The method used for disposition remains classified.”_

A line was drawn under the word “disposed”. The ink ran black and strong, piercing the thin, crispy paper and left a blot on the next page. She could feel the eagerness when he scratched on the paper with triumph and impatience. 

Hermione closed her eyes and saw that evil, but dashing smile on his lips. 

Hermione read that page again. She was referred to by the term “dark creature”.

Not a witch. Not a human. A dark creature. It took her at least five minutes to wrap her mind around it. 

_Congratulations,_ she thought darkly. _You’re downgraded from a Mudblood to a dark creature. Like a werewolf. But worse. What brilliant luck!_

She didn’t even want to cry; she wanted to laugh at this absurdity. She must have gone half insane already. 

A deep thunder rumbled somewhere distantly. She looked out of the mullioned windows and saw the dark, forlorn sky. Wind pounded against the castle walls. After a few seconds, large drops of rain began to fall, pattering on the glass persistently.

It was the first storm of spring. 


	11. Friends and Foes

Hermione and her fellow Ravenclaws strolled down the breezy meadow under the brilliant early spring sun towards the greenhouses for Herbology. They were joined by some boisterous Gryffindors on the way. 

“Nice day, eh?” Said Hagrid cheerfully. 

“Which greenhouse are we going to use today, Rubeus?” Asked Olive. 

“Seven, I think.” 

Greenhouse Seven. Great. Hermione almost tripped over her robes.

“Are you all right, Hermione?” Asked Myrtle.

“I hate Herbology,” Hermione lied. 

“Our new academic genius doesn’t like nightshade and belladonna?” Said Olive. She had been making fun of Hermione since the day she battled with Riddle in History, and Hermione had largely chosen to ignore her. 

The greenhouse was warm and smelled of damp soil and fertilizer. They were sorted into groups of four to pluck ripe nightshades from their vines and seal them in large glass jars. Hermione was in the same group with Myrtle, Hagrid, and another Gryffindor student. 

“Here, let me,” Hermione said kindly after Hagrid smashed his jar. She whipped her wand and repaired it for him. 

“Thanks, Starr,” he mumbled sheepishly. “Clumsy of me.” 

“How’s Aragog, by the way?” Giggled the other Gryffindor boy in their group and prodded Hagrid with an elbow. “Still feeding him the food you stole from the kitchen?” 

“Don’t talk abou’ him ‘ere, Ignatius,” Hagrid muttered. 

“It’s fine. They don’t know what I mean.” 

Hagrid shot a furtive look at Myrtle and Hermione; Myrtle seemed curious while Hermione looked up with a concerned frown and paused what she was doing. 

“Hagrid,” blurted out Hermione. Discretion was miles behind her mind. “You’ve got to take that Acromantula out of the castle as soon as you can!” 

Hagrid dropped his glass jar again. “Ouch!” Yelped his friend Ignatius when the jar smashed on his feet and broke into pieces. 

“For the love of Merlin, be careful!” Shrieked Professor Nutmeg, the Herbology teacher. “Don’t act like a bunch of first-years!” 

“Reparo,” Ignatius muttered quickly, then picked up the fixed jar, putting it back on their table with a dull thud. 

“What’re yer talkin’ about?” Said Hagrid in surprise, gaping at Hermione with his round beady eyes. 

Ignatius Prewett, Hagrid’s freckle-nosed Gryffindor friend, also stared at Hermione. He was tall, but rather lanky, and with thick chestnut brown hair. A shiny prefect’s badge was pinned in front of his robes. 

Hermione knew of him from a few classes she had with the Gryffindors, but she had never spoken to him before. She knew that the Prewetts were connected to the Weasleys, but she wasn’t sure who this Ignatius was exactly.

“Did you hear it from Riddle?” Said Ignatius, a bit alerted. 

“No,” said Hermione. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. But I’m worried this isn’t going to end well. Hagrid, you’ve got to get Aragog out of the castle before the teachers find out.” 

Ignatius looked as if somebody had just shoved a spoonful of deadly nightshade extract down his throat.

“If you’re trying to play any tricks -” Said Ignatius slowly, squinting at her.

“Don’t be rude, Igs,” mumbled Hagrid. “She’s only tryin’ ter help.” 

“Rubeus, this is Hermione Starr we’re talking about,” said Ignatius, as if he was stating the most obvious fact in the world such as the sun rises from the east and the earth isn’t flat. “If she’s trying to help, then I am a cow!” 

“Hey,” said Hermione, “I can hear you!” 

“I know,” Ignatius rolled his eyes. And then he turned back to Hagrid, “but if she can find out, it’s just a matter of time others in the castle will know.” 

“Can’t I have another week or two?” Pleaded Hagrid. “Aragog never hurt nobody. He’s just a baby!” 

“Hagrid,” said Hermione sternly. “He’s got to go.” 

“Are you trying to get Hagrid caught?” Said Ignatius suspiciously.

“Why in heaven’s name would I do that?”

“Because you are a wretched person, that’s why!” Exclaimed Ignatius. “If I were any smart, I’d go the opposite way of your suggestion because I know you’re up to no good.” 

And that got a chuckle out of Hermione.

“What are you laughing about?” He looked both confused and miffed. 

“I solemnly swear that I’m _not_ up to no good,” she said, with a suppressed smile at the curve of her lips.

It took Ignatius a few seconds to realize that she was joking, and he seemed quite unable to process this fact. “Did you have a concussion or something?” He asked. 

“Oh yes. Permanent brain damage,” said Hermione seriously. “Side effect of the poison I took last year, you see.” 

Hagrid and Myrtle both chuckled. 

“What poison turns you from a mean dimwit into a lunatic?” Said Ignatius. 

“Ignatius!” Said Hagrid.

”Shut up, you donkey,” said Myrtle. 

Ignatius scowled, “I’m a prefect, Warren! You can’t insult me like that.” 

”A donkey prefect,” Myrtle shot back.

He shook his head, looking defeated. 

”Sorry about him,” said Hagrid to Hermione.

”It’s all right,” said Hermione. She had no interest in dwelling on Ignatius’s attitude. “Just get Aragog out. Don’t wait until April.” 

“Why? Do yer know somethin’?” 

“I just have an inkling,” said Hermione. Then put on her gloves and plucked a nightshade from the potted plant. 

“Well,” said Hagrid musingly, working on a nightshade besides her clumsily. “Maybe it’s time to send him to a new home. Aragog’s been strange recently.”

“How?”

“I dunno. He’s getting restless as if he’s agitated, or scared of somethin’. I don’t understand,” Hagrid wiped his face with his wrist, and choked. “I’m worried he doesn’t love me anymore. He’s like my child, you see...” 

Myrtle snorted a muffled laughter next to Hermione.

***

Hermione spent all her free time in the library in the following few days, burying her nose in all the materials about necromancy she could get her hands on, and yet, there was no mention of how to travel back. 

Most books about the dark rituals didn’t go into details, but explained lavishly why they were extremely dangerous and, of course, illegal. She read the records of disasters in history and the repercussions, but there was nothing in the books about what happened to the “creatures” that ended up being summoned.

When she walked into the library on a Tuesday evening after dinner, she spotted Tom Riddle immediately in his usual seat. A couple of girls hid behind a bookshelf, eyeing him and giggling together. Tom, engrossed in that old, well-worn tome written in Runes, seemed completely oblivious of his surroundings. 

“Do you want to go ask him?” She heard one of the girls when she walked past the bookshelves where they were hiding behind. 

“No - you go.” 

“Would he really go to Hogsmeade with me?” 

“You have to ask him -” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked straight towards him. 

“Hey,” she tapped on his desk, “mind if I join you?” 

He looked up from the book, a wavy, dark lock of hair fell on his forehead. “Miss Starr,” he said, extending a dashing smile, “to what to I owe this pleasure?” 

“That’s strangely forgetful for someone who just attacked my cousin and threatened me a few days ago,” said Hermione sullenly while she dumped her bag under her seat, and pulled out a book. “We need to talk.” 

He winced, faking a shocked expression, while there was a glinting mock in his dark eyes. “Aren’t you over dramatic?” His voice was deep and charming. “I had an informative conversation with Felix, and a pleasant encounter with you.” 

“You better do something to get rid of those girls behind the shelf,” she said irritably.

He looked over his shoulder, a gesture that prompted another outburst of giggling. “What are they doing?” He asked half-absently, his eyes back on her face. 

“Apparently they want to ask you out,” replied Hermione loftily. 

He chortled, “you’re acting like a cat now.” 

“A cat?”

“They like to mark their territories,” he said, in an amused voice. 

Hermione shot him a sharp look and snapped, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not in a mood for jokes today.” 

“All right. What do you want to talk about?” 

“What do you plan to do with your discovery?” She asked crisply. 

“Well,” he drawled, “that depends.” 

“On what?” 

“How honest you want to be,” his smile was impeccable. “Let’s begin with the first question, shall we? What’s your real name?” 

Hermione stared at him, pondering. She didn’t want to give him her real name. She would never.

“You’ve been reading about necromancy recently, have you?” To her surprise, he changed the topic. His voice was casual. 

“Yes,” Hermione admitted.

“Found anything useful?” 

“Not really. I want to know how it’s done. The ritual. But none of the books go into the details.” 

He scoffed, “what do you expect to find in a school library? A step-by-step manual on how to make blood sacrifice?”

“I have to know,” she said irritably. “That’s my only hope of -”

She remembered who she was talking to, and stopped abruptly. 

“- of going back to where you came from?” He finished the sentence for her.

“Are you reading my mind?”

“No,” he said languidly. “You’d feel it when I enter your mind. Nobody can just sit in a room and read random people’s heads effortlessly.” 

“Don’t do that anymore,” she said irritably. “It’s creepy.” 

“What? Guessing what you’re thinking?” 

“Yes!” 

“But you have a very expressive face,” he said with a chuckle. “Starr didn’t. Even I couldn’t tell what she was thinking most of the time. But that was perhaps because she barely thought at all.”

His tone was perfectly refined, even though his words were full of contempt. 

“And you, on the contrary, have very strong opinions and feelings.” He continued, “do you even know how different you are from her? And it seems to me you aren’t exactly making an effort to conceal your true nature. You’re lucky that you’re in Hogwarts now. If any of your family enemies noticed, which shouldn’t be hard, I shudder to think what would happen to you.” 

That was definitely a threat even though his voice was calm and polite.

”Family enemies?” She said. 

“Yes. Starr’s death would have benefited some people. Is that such a surprise to you?” 

Hermione had been mostly focused on the core of her problem - how to get back - in the past few months. In order to get back, she had to survive first. But to be honest, she hadn’t really been very careful. It had never occurred to her that she might already have enemies. 

“What’re you trying to say?” She asked.

“I have information about people, and knowledge in a certain area that you apparently are not an expert in,” he let out a dazzling smile but his voice grew cold, “if you don’t wish to end up dead again because of your own folly, you’ll need proper guidance to learn how to waltz with your friends and foes. This game is more dangerous than you know. So here is my proposal. I’d like to personally act as your mentor; you shall follow my lead in every move you make from this point and onwards. In return, you shall have my discretion and protection.” 

“Why?” She said, rather startled. “What’s in it for you?” 

“I happen to enjoy your company, which is a rare thing to come by, and I plan to keep you around,” he said slyly.

Hermione scoffed. “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “But I have no intention of staying near you. Should I state the obvious? First, I don’t trust a single word coming out of your mouth. And second, I don’t like you.”

”You certainly liked kissing me,” he said with a wolfish grin. “Or was that just my fantasy?” 

“That was a mistake,” she said, glaring at him. “I’ve shagged plenty of jerks in my life for my own pleasure. You think you can shame me for kissing one more dickface?”

She was, in fact, exaggerating a little bit when she said “plenty”. But Riddle didn’t need to know.

“For your own pleasure?” He repeated, a bit dumbly. 

“Oh yes. Most certainly.” 

“And you just called me a...dickface,” he uttered the last word with a wince. “What world of atrocity have you come from?”

”I have better words reserved for you.” 

“If you could kindly spare me more horrendous language, I’d be much obliged,” he said stiffly, and cleared his throat. “Well, let’s get back to my proposal.” 

“I respectfully decline.” 

“Have you forgotten?” He said with a menacing smile, “I know your secret now.” 

“Did I forget to mention?” Hermione smiled back, which caused a slight furrow in his brows. “I like your ring very much.” 

She darted her eyes to the Gaunt ring on his finger. The black gem on the Peverell heirloom glimmered in the firelight. 

“I wonder if you have bad dreams about how you acquired it,” she said coolly. 

He was good. His expression didn’t waver. Not in the slightest. He clenched his jaws. But it only took him a second to relax again and let out a soft chuckle. 

“You don’t know anything,” he said. 

“Do you want to test what I know or not in front of Wizengamot?” Said Hermione, in a subtle, menacing tone she had recently picked up. “I’m sure Morfin Gaunt would _love_ to see you again.” 

He looked at her, weighing her. “You knew me,” he said carefully, “from your other life. Don’t you?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said innocently. 

“You don’t dare face Wizengamot.” He said coldly. “You wouldn’t risk your own neck.” 

“Of course I don’t want to face them,” she said pleasantly with just a hint of sharpness hidden beneath the facade. A tone she also picked up quite recently. “But if you give me no other option, I swear to Merlin I’ll drag you down with me.” 

He scoffed, “you learn fast.” 

“I had a good example to follow.”

”I’ll take that as a compliment. But I don’t think you’re supposed to use your newly gained cruelty and cunningness against me. One might think that you’re ungrateful.”

”Cruelty knows no master, Miss Havisham.” She said without thinking. And then she remembered he wouldn’t be able to get the sarcasm. 

He looked at her with a hardened face, and then let out a ridiculed short laugh. “Are you comparing me to an old mad muggle woman?” he said angrily. “You preposterous, insolent -“

“I didn’t know you read muggle novels,” she said, lifting a brow. 

“We didn’t exactly have a large selection of spell books in the…” he paused a heart beat, and then said sulkily, “in the place I grew up.” 

“Do you like Dickens?” Hermione asked; she had no idea why she even wanted to know. 

“No,” he said briskly.

“Why?” 

“Because he wrote so much about food.” 

She opened her mouth, but she wasn’t able to make any sound. Nor did she know what to say.

He grew up a hungry child in an orphanage. 

He looked at her in silence, his eyes angry and dark. Hermione was astonished by the depth of hatred swirling in the back of his eyes like bottomless vortexes in a wrathful sea.

“Fuck you,” suddenly he cursed. 

“Riddle-” She began. 

“Piss off,” he spat rudely.

He got back to his feet, grabbed the book he was reading before and stormed out of the library. 

***

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. 

She hadn’t seen Alphard much. He was awfully busy, of course. But she wondered if he was still mad at her. 

On Thursday morning, an elegant, majestic owl alighted on her table, perching on her milk jar and held out a talon. Attached to his leg was a dark green envelope. In the red sealing wax pressed the crest of the House of Black. 

“What is it?” Asked Myrtle curiously. “Looks quite formal.” 

Olive looked over at her but didn’t say anything. 

Hermione untied the letter from the owl and offered him some bacon. The owl wetted his beak in her goblet with utmost dignity, and enjoyed the bacon. 

She opened the letter. Inside there was a very fine piece of parchment, thick and ivory white, with the Black crest and address printed on the top. 

The letter seemed rushed, but not without elegance in that flowery hand - 

_“Dear Hermione,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_We have some friends coming over for dinner on Friday evening. I'm hoping you and Alphard could join us in Eldershore. I want you two to stay the weekend. If the weather clears up, we might go hunting and enjoy an outdoor lunch on Saturday._

_I have good news: Walburga and I have decided to officially ask you and Alphard to be the bridesmaid and the best man at our wedding. Isn’t it delightful?_

_I’m awfully sorry about the short notice. We planned this gathering rather on a whim. Let me know at your earliest convenience so I can have the elves prepare the rooms._

_Yours,_

_Orion Black.”_

“An invitation to the Eldershore Castle!” Exclaimed Myrtle, who leant over and looked at the letter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to look. But it’s so exciting! I heard it’s three hundred years old, isn’t it?” 

“Five hundred and thirty-four years, to be precise,” said a voice from behind. Hermione looked up and saw Alphard, dressed in his muddy green Quidditch robes. He looked exhausted from the training. His dark hair was blown into a mess by the wind. 

“I received a letter,” said Hermione, "from Orion." 

“What does he want?”

He bent down behind her to look at the letter. Myrtle looked away to give them some privacy. 

“Salazar’s arse,” sighed Alphard, still bending over her with an arm across her shoulder. “I was hoping to catch up with my homework this weekend.” 

“Do we have to go?” 

“I suppose,” said Alphard simply. 

The idea of getting away from Hogwarts for a weekend didn’t seem too bad, but in the den of Blacks? She might risk revealing her true identity. Back in Rosier Park, she was able to avoid most social occasions because she was ill. But now, she didn’t have that free pass anymore.

“I’ll write back to him,” said Alphard. “Have you got a quill?” 

Hermione pulled out a quill from her bag silently and passed it to him. He climbed into the bench, sat next to Hermione, and scribbled a brutally short reply on the back of Orion’s letter - 

_“Will be there. Al.”_

He tied the parchment back to the owl’s leg, and gave him a gentle stroke on the neck. The owl gave him an affectionate peck on the back of his hand, then soared into the air. 

“How do we go?” Hermione asked. “Floo?” 

“No. Eldershore’s fireplace only accepts guests from the houses they know. We’ll take the train.” 

“The train?” Hermione asked in surprise. “How long is it going to take?” 

She didn’t know that wizards and witches travel by train. But she figured it made sense. Hogwarts Express couldn’t be the only train to build a wizarding railway for. There might be times when people didn’t want to floo, apparate or fly. 

“About three hours,” Alphard said simply. He wasn’t smiling at her cordially like he always did. Instead he only pulled a plate in front of him, and took a butter croissant. “You know Eldershore as well as your own home. But I suppose there's no point asking why you don't remember.” 

He was sarcastic, but he didn’t sound mad; he seemed too tired and hungry to argue after the morning Quidditch training.

Hermione sighed. 

“Listen. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want anything to do with Riddle anymore,” she said. “I mean it. And I don’t want Felix to have anything to do with him either. We have to do something about it.” 

Alphard looked up at her. His clean grey eyes flickered. 

She had thought about it carefully. If she was going to survive this, she’d need allies. She needed friends she could trust. Not people like Tom Riddle who pretended to help but with their own hidden agenda. But Riddle was right about one thing: she couldn’t play the role on her own. There was no way she could pass as Starr without raising suspicions among a pack of Blacks over an entire weekend in a huge house - a castle, in fact - that Starr was probably familiar with since young.

It was time to take a leap of faith.

She drew a deep breath. “I need to talk to you,” she said frankly.

“All right,” he said. 

“It’s going to be a long conversation.”

“We’ll have time on the train tomorrow.”

“I’d rather talk to you before we leave.”

Alphard checked his watch. 

“Then it’ll have to be tonight,” he said, in a softened tone. “How about I come to your common room at nine? Sorry I can't make it earlier.” 

“Sounds good,” said Hermione with a peace-offering smile. 

Alphard smiled back at her, but he didn’t leave a kiss on her face like he normally would before he left for the first class. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! 
> 
> Just a quick note. In this story, characters’ ages have some minor differences from what was indicated in the Black family tree and HP wiki. 
> 
> 1\. Alphard is the youngest among his siblings in this story; according to the family tree Alphard should be the middle child. 
> 
> 2\. Tom and Starr are younger than Druella, Walburga, Orion in this story. According to HP Wiki, Tom should be a few years older. 
> 
> I’m ignoring these differences for sake of the plot. Thank you for putting up with me :DD
> 
> Eldershore is an original spot in this story. It’s a Black family estate I made up. 
> 
> Thanks for your support as always💙💙💙 Writing and sharing this story have been a real joy!


	12. Eldershore Revisited - Part 1

“Please say something,” said Hermione tentatively with some trepidation. 

“Uh-huh,” was Alphard’s most intelligible response; she doubted if he even heard what she asked. 

Hermione did not tell him everything, for there wasn’t enough time. But she had told him the essentials about the destitute situation she was trapped in. He remained silent when she was talking, and when she finished, he continued to perch on the sofa, staring into the blank with both hands in the pockets of his grey flannel trousers. He hadn’t moved or spoken for five minutes. Hermione’s confession was proven to have the same efficacy of a stunner. 

“Take as much time as you need,” Hermione sighed, picking up a book. 

It was a quarter to ten, and the Ravenclaw common room was filled with the hubbub from the students. Nobody was paying attention to them, thank Merlin. She flipped through the pages mindlessly as she had nothing else to occupy herself.

“Oh fuck me,” at last Alphard contrived to speak again. “Fuck me senseless.” 

Hermione put her book away. “Well,” she remarked rather objectively. “At least we’re talking.” 

A guttural groan rattled down his throat as Alphard lowered his head and raked both hands into his hair. “So,” he said, his voice feeble and incredulous. “The whole time you’re someone else trapped in...in her body. And you led me and everybody to believe that you are her?” 

“That’s the gist of it.” 

“I know there’s something off about you...I know there must be something,” he said, dropping into the seat next to her. “But never in a million years would I suspect you’re _literally_ a different person! So she did die?” 

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “I’m sorry.” 

“I wonder what she’d feel about this situation if she’s watching up at us now,” he said with a hint of derision, which was a positive sign indicating he was starting to come back to himself.

“Watching up?” She asked. 

“Oh she’s in hell, that’s all she’s fit for,” he said. “She died for another man while engaged with me. At least she should have the decency of breaking the engagement before she dies and save me the humiliation!” 

The outburst of his dark resentment startled Hermione.

“Alphard, she was a victim,” Hermione said slowly. “Let’s not speak ill of her.” 

His breaths slowed down and grew even. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just... I’m not quite myself. Do forgive me.” 

He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers. “I’m sorry,” he muttered again. 

They sat in silence for a moment. Alphard calmed down. 

“You see,” he said pensively. “I’ve known her since she was five, and never for once have I seen such lights in her eyes. And I thought…” he shook his head and let out a ridiculed laugh. “I thought I could finally like her now, love her, even. Believe me, I tried in the past. I really tried. But she and I cannot stand each other. We repulsed each other like the same side of a magnet. Oh God, how stupid of me! How can I assume that you are her?” 

Hermione’s ears went a little red, but she was not going to be sidetracked. There were more important things on her mind that she needed to talk to him about. 

“She wasn’t interested in anything,” he said. “Everything on this planet bored her. Except Riddle, perhaps. I honestly have no clue what he has done to beguile her. But I have a feeling that he was after something.”

“What d’you reckon it could be?”

“Money, most likely,” he pondered. “Just a week before Riddle broke up with her, she visited her father’s Gringotts vault.” 

“Her father’s vault?” 

“Yes. Maximilian Starr wasn’t a very rich man. But he did leave her a small amount of gold.”

“Do you know what she took from the vault?” 

“No. I should have asked, but in the last few months before she died, she and I have grown very distant. We barely spoke at all,” Alphard paused a heart beat. “That’s enough talk about her. I’m more interested in you. What is your real name?” 

“You don’t mind that I’m an imposter all along? You don’t find it...disturbing?” 

“Not at all.”

Hermione beamed in relief. “My name is Hermione Granger,” she said.

“Your first name is also Hermione?” He looked amazed, “what're the odds!” 

“There's a reason for it,” she said, and went on to explain her possible connection to Hermione Starr.

“She and I do have similar features, except that I’m in fact a bit taller,” she added. “I did some research on necromancy. Tethered souls are most likely being summoned when the ritual goes wrong.” 

“Tell me more about this dark ritual,” he asked. 

She shuddered slightly when she explained to him about the dark art that could bring people back from death. The bargain. And how time and space work differently in the astral realm. 

“Did they kill someone?” Alphard gasped. 

“I think so,” said Hermione heavily. “Felix did say that he saw Healer Isowyre walking out of my room that night with a bucket of blood. The ritual went horribly wrong, which is why I ended up here instead.” 

“And you said if the Ministry found out…”

“I’d be disposed,” she said, trying to maintain a casual tone. 

“How?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Salazar’s beard!” 

“I know,” she said in a little voice. 

They fell silent again. It was a strained, uncomfortable sort of silence. 

“Alphard,” she said after a minute, in a sincere but nervous voice. “I want you to know that you’re not obliged to be part of this mess. It is completely up to you. If you could help me to act more like her, that would be great. But if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll obliviate you. Perhaps it’s for the best if you could just forget about the entire business, forget about me and move on with -”

She stopped abruptly when he pulled her into his arms. Her face crashed into the warm fabric of his shirt. It was only then she realized that she was shaking all over. She wanted to stop it, but she couldn’t. 

“Hey, everything will be fine. You’re safe,” he said softly, in a cooing voice, “now breathe. Nice and slow.” 

She gasped for air. 

She hated it, this feeling of helplessness.

“What’re your parents like?” He asked quietly. “Tell me about them.” 

She prattled on about her parents. Their names and jobs; the neighbourhood they lived in; the random, silly little things she remembered from here and there. The day Professor McGonagall showed up at their doorstep on her eleventh birthday…

“McGonagall?”

“Yes,” she said. “She’s Deputy Headmistress in my time.” 

“That’s why you were surprised when you first saw her.” 

“Yeah,” Hermione beamed. She had calmed down. She was feeling better now. Her heart felt light - so light and happy in a wonderful way she had not felt in a long, long time.

“Am I the first to know?” Was Alphard’s next question. 

“No,” she said. 

“Who else did you tell?” 

“Dumbledore,” she said. “He’s the first person I turned to for help.” 

“That makes sense.” 

“Riddle also knows,” she said; this caused an immediate grimace on his face. “I didn’t tell him,” she added quickly. “He figured it out by himself and tried to blackmail me with the information. That’s why you saw me with him the other night.” 

“Slimy bastard,” muttered Alphard. “I’m sorry for losing my temper with you that day. I’m really sorry. What did he want from you?” 

“He wants to be my mentor,” she said derisively. “He said I wasn’t convincing enough as Hermione Starr, because we’re too different.”

“Not that I ever imagined I’d agree with him on anything, but he’s right. You do need help. What I don’t understand is why does he want to help?” 

“He said he enjoyed my company and wanted to keep me close, but I think he’s lying. I don’t know what his real agenda is.”

“He probably saw your potential and wants to recruit you,” said Alphard. “You’re smarter than anybody I’ve known.” 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, trying not to appear too pleased at this compliment. “There’s something else he said,'' she continued pensively. “He said Starr’s death would have benefitted some people. He insinuated that Starr had enemies from her own family. Is that true?” 

Alphard looked at her with a frown. He seemed genuinely confused. 

“I don’t know what he meant,” he said. “She was the apple of Graham Rosier’s eyes. Both my parents are fond of her. Surely nobody wanted her dead -” 

“You, perhaps.” She jested, remembering their first conversation back in Rosier Park. The corner of her mouth quirked, and then her eyes caught his eyes. They both burst out laughing. 

“So…” she hesitated, after the laughing quieted down. “What’s your decision then?” 

“I’ll help you, of course,” he said without a second thought. “Hermione, you took a huge risk to confide in me. The only thing I can do to return your trust is to help you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that you’re safe.” 

He smiled at her; it would be a lie to say that she was untouched by his words. 

“Right now, your imminent problem is that you'll have to fool everybody this weekend,” he continued. “The people you’ll see at Eldershore are family. They’ve known her for her entire life. It’ll be a lot more difficult than getting by in Hogwarts. ”

“But do we have to go? We can say that we need to study.” 

“How much do you think she cared about studying?” 

Hermione took up the cup on the table and finished the pumpkin juice in it. She wished she could have something stronger.

“All right,” she said sulkily. “I’ll go. And when Dumbledore comes back, I’ll go see him immediately.” 

“What happens then?” 

“I’m hoping he could send me back,” Hermione set the cup back on the small table. 

“Is it possible that he might turn you in?” 

“No,” said Hermione quickly. “He would never do that. He and the Ministry never really see eye to eye. In my time, he protected a werewolf and let him teach in Hogwarts.” 

“That’s good. But…if you leave, will I be able to see you again?” 

“I suppose not.” 

“What if I don’t want you to go?” He said, in a low, but clear voice. His eyes were fixed on her; the firelight, warm and delightful, cast a soft glow on his face. 

“Don’t be daft,” Hermione said briskly. “I’m only here because of some dumb luck. When I leave, which I hope would happen soon, you’ll be free. After all, we’re not supposed to be in each other’s lives -“

He slid a hand into the thick, chocolate curls behind her neck, pulled her close and kissed her.

Hermione let out a faint whimper by the sudden intrusion of his lips. They had kissed before, but those kisses were merely courteous pecks on the face. He was now kissing her deeply, gently, with an alarming rate of affection that shocked her.

“But you are in my life now,” with eyes that had gone intensely dark grey he whispered, “And I don’t want you gone.” 

He kissed her again, a lot more forcefully this time; but she was still in shock and did not respond. A part of her wanted to give in. It confused her. He made her feel _safe_ like no other. She wanted to be safe. She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“Al,” she pushed him away. “Stop this. I can’t.” 

“Why?” He growled. 

“Because I don’t belong here. I’ll have to leave eventually. You know it.” 

“Ok,” he said after a bewildered pause, in a hollow voice.

“Let's not complicate things.”

“No,” he agreed. Then he looked at her straight in the eyes and asked, “But what if you belong here?” 

“I don’t,” she said assertively. 

“You’ve got to let go sometimes and accept certain things are meant to happen, Hermione.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m speaking of fate. The oldest magic written and engraved in time itself.” 

“Don’t tell me you believe in that sort of rubbish,” she laughed, brushing the notion off the same way she’d brush off dirt from her robes. Alphard shrugged, knowing it would be futile to continue this argument. Hermione Granger was a smart, sensible witch. She believed in the exquisite, noble art of Divination just as much as she believed in Santa Claus and magic beans. 

Then she pulled out a notebook from her bag with a determined look on her face. “Now, if you please,” she said efficiently, in a business-like manner. “Tell me everything I need to know about Eldershore.” 

***

Hermione didn’t sleep well that night. She was daydreaming during all her classes on Friday. When the last class finally came to the end, she ran back to Ravenclaw Tower, changed out of her school robes and grabbed the luggage she had packed this morning. 

Alphard was already under the main stairs when she hurried down.

“Got the tickets for the 4 pm,” he patted his pocket, taking over her luggage. “Let’s go.” 

The sun was setting down, radiating warm orange streaks of light on top of the Forbidden Forest. The woods were getting greener; snow crocuses, white, purple and blue, had sprouted from the dark soil like heralds of spring. 

They walked down to Hogsmeade and boarded the train. Hogsmeade wasn’t the departing station; the train was already full of wizards and witches.

They barely sat down in their compartment when the train began moving again, leaving Hogsmeade behind the windows.

Alphard closed the door, then he came back to the seat, pulling out a large notebook from his bag. “I put this together for you last night.”

“What is it?” Hermione opened it, and was surprised by many black-and-white pictures of different sizes, glued to each page. 

“All the faces you have to remember,” he said. 

“Where did you find all these photos?” 

“I took a quick trip to Grimmauld Place last night and sabotaged a few family albums.” 

“Won’t you get into trouble?” 

“Don’t worry. Kreacher helped me to make these replicas and put the original photos back.” 

Hermione turned to the first page. There was a young witch and wizard in the same frame, dressed in fancy robes and stared at her stiffly.

“Let’s begin with my dear sister and brother,” said Alphard sarcastically with a grin. 

***

Hermione managed to remember every single person in that huge album in about two hours. Alphard used the remaining time to coach on her relationships with each one of them. 

Hermione had never been to other wizarding train platforms besides King’s Cross and Hogsmeade; Alphard told her that this station, just like 9 ¾ platform, was hidden behind the walls that muggles couldn’t enter. 

When they arrived at the small train station in the countryside, they were greeted by a cheerful young man. 

“Hello,” he said cheerfully when Alphard and Hermione alighted to the platform, waving a hat. 

“Alec?” said Alphard gladly, a bit surprised.

“I’m working at Eldershore now,” said the young man with a wide grin.

”Alec’s from the village nearby,” Alphard explained to Hermione. “I used to play Quidditch with him when I was little.”

Alec didn’t take them out of the station. Instead he walked them to the apparition spot, and asked them to grab each of his arms. 

“Ready?” He asked Hermione. And then the next second they apparated, and dropped on the hard ground in front of a pair of wrought iron gates, the air around which shimmered and vibrated of magical energy. Hermione didn’t need to ask Alphard to know that this place was muggle repellent. 

Hermione thought they were going to walk to the house, but Alec stopped by a carriage pulled by two skeletal, horse-like creatures with wings. Hermione looked at them in surprise. She had no idea that the Blacks kept Thestrals.

“You can see Thestrals?” Asked Alec, a bit surprised.

Alphard shot him a quick look; Alec stopped staring at Hermione and stuttered into a clumsy apology. 

Alphard opened the carriage door for Hermione and she climbed in. But he didn’t follow immediately. She noticed, from the corner of her eyes, that he slipped a galleon to the stable boy rather skillfully. “Keep it to yourself, will you?” Alphard said, and gave Alec a chummy pat on the shoulder.

“‘course,” Alex muttered back reassuringly, a hand on his pocket where he just hid the gold coin.

Alphard joined Hermione in the carriage and closed the door. Hermione looked out of the window, pursing her lips. 

The carriage went on, the wheels ground over the gravel driveway.

“What’s the matter?” Asked Alphard. 

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

“You don’t need to worry about Alec. He’s a friend.” 

“Is that how you make sure you can trust your friends? By paying them?” 

“Hermione,” he said. “It’s just the way it is.” 

“If you say so,” she shrugged, looking back out of the window.

”Don’t judge.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything. You asked.”

He let out a soft chuckle, “fine.” 

“Am I not supposed to see Thestrals?” 

“No.” 

“But her parents died-” 

“They died in Europe. She never saw their bodies,” he said, his eyes slightly imploring. “You’ve seen death?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said stiffly and looked away.

”You’ve been vague about your previous life,” he said carefully. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you were knocked out when it happened?” 

“I said I had an accident, that’s all you need to know,” she said dismissively. “Believe me. It’s for your own safety.” She added in the end, in a softer tone.

She might not be an expert on time and space, but one thing she knew for sure that learning the possible events in the future would do him no good. Dumbledore didn’t even want to know her accusations of Tom Riddle. He was clever. 

Alphard nodded, and did not say anything anymore.

The sun had vanished behind the clouds. It started to drizzle; the air smelled of damp soil and fresh grass. She heard a lark singing somewhere in the deep woods. 

She was expecting to see the sort of straightforward driveway with perfectly trimmed hedges like in Malfoy Manor, but it wasn’t the same at all.

The carriage went uphill and downhill, then took a turn. She thought that would be the end of it, but the driveway went on. There was no sign of the house in sight. The drive wasn’t straight anymore; it twisted and turned like a serpent in the woods, sometimes barely wider than a car’s width; the trees on both sides, old, ancient and menacing, reached above their heads and formed an impenetrable canopy. Their strong, gnarled roots were partly exposed above the earth. The air became strangely still and sterile; there was no drizzle, no scent of fresh grass, and not a whiff of wind in the air. 

The driveway went on, and Hermione began to feel the effects of claustrophobia getting on her nerves. She did not like suffocating, enclosed woods like this. She did not like it at all.

Suddenly she felt a stir in the air, something fresh and earthy. The lark began singing again. The trees were getting less dense around them. The carriage took another turn and Hermione could finally see a patch of steel grey sky. In front of her eyes there was a wall of tall shrubs.

“Azaleas,” said Alphard, pointing at the brushes. “It was her favorite flower. In another month this place will become quite spectacular with the full bloom.” 

Hermione nodded silently, noting this detail in her head. 

The carriage slowed down at the end of the driveway and stopped in front of a grand, limestone castle with green turrets on each corner. Hermione stepped out of the car, looking up and around, trying to appear she was only revisiting this place after a long time away.

The drizzle became denser.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Black,” a sturdy, pompous middle-aged man dressed in black livery walked down the steps, and bowed at them stiffly. “Lady Hermione, we’re all very glad that you’ve made a full recovery.” 

_You’re nice to the staff, but not over friendly._ She remembered what Alphard told her back on the train.

“Thank you, Belby,” said Hermione in an indifferent, but polite voice.

“Where’s Orion?” Asked Alphard casually.

“Master Orion went to London this afternoon. I’m afraid he hasn’t returned,” said Belby.

“But he’ll be back for dinner?” 

“Oh yes. Dinner will be served at eight. Would you like me to show you to your rooms?”

”I’ll show them myself, Belby,” said a silvery, young female’s voice. Hermione looked up and saw a slim, light-footed woman walking out of the front gates. “You should go down to the kitchen and check with the elves,” she told Belby in an efficient manner. “I heard there’s an accident with dessert.”

“Yes, Miss Black.” 

“If you keep cutting the elves slacks they'd burn your house down one day, Lu,” said a taller, darker woman languidly. Hermione recognized her immediately - it was Druella Rosier. She turned to the butler and said sharply, “tell those filthy monkeys I'd chop off their fingers and pickle them if they don't cook dinner to everyone's liking tonight.” 

“Yes, Miss Rosier,” said the butler emotionlessly, and hurried away. 

They walked up the stone steps and entered the foyer, which was a magnificent hall with gleaming marbles and chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. Two grand, elegant staircases led upstairs from both sides of the hall, connecting a gallery that oversaw the entire front hall. There were many portraits of ancestors from the Black family in the gallery. 

“Hermione, my dear,” said the shorter girl pleasantly. She had wavy dark hair, vivacious green eyes and rosy lips. Her sage robes were open, revealing a classy, button-up white dress inside. 

_Lucretia Black is quite a character._ Alphard told her earlier on the train. _She’s Orion’s older sister. Her father, Arcturus Black, owns Eldershore._ _She’s a good-natured person, but she loves meddling way too much. Since the passing of her dear mother three years ago, she’s been the de facto lady of Eldershore. Somehow she takes up the role of looking after everyone, including me, which is infernally annoying._

“I’ve been _dying_ to see you,” proclaimed Lucretia heartily, exchanging kisses with Hermione on both cheeks. “You poor thing. You put us all through such a frightful time, but now look at you! My goodness. You look so much better. You’re positively glowing!” 

Hermione smiled at her. She wasn’t sure what to say, but that hesitating gesture didn’t really strike Lucretia as uncharacteristic of her.

“Hello, Lu,” said Alphard.

“You finally came,” Lucretia stared at him with reproach. “I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Well,” said Alphard evasively. “I’ve been busy.” 

“Of course you have,” said Lucretia sarcastically. Then she turned back to Hermione, smiling radiantly again. “We have so much to catch up. You have to tell me _everything_ since we last met.” 

“Certainly,” said Hermione. She cast a sideways glance at Alphard, accidentally he looked at her as well; they exchanged a beam with each other. 

Lucretia gawped at them as if she had just witnessed the eighth wonder of the world. 

Druella greeted them with an almost imperceptible nod. A little orange cocker spaniel trotted past Druella, sniffing and pawing at Alphard cheerfully and wagged its tail.

“Cheeky little beggar,” laughed Alphard when he stooped down and stroked the dog’s ears. “Have you put on more weight?”

The dog abandoned him and came to Hermione for more attention. But suddenly, to everybody’s shock, the dog bolted and started barking at her in a frenzy. 

Hermione stepped back instinctively and bumped into Alphard; he caught her in his arms. 

“What’s the matter with you, Cleopatra?” Shrieked Lucretia. “It’s just Hermione!”

Cleopatra whimpered at the rebuke from Lucretia. Leaving another terrified glimpse towards Hermione, she trotted away, tail tucked between her hind legs. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Hermione,” said Lucretia, distressed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that dog.”

“It’s all right,” said Hermione.

“How very jolly,” said Druella lazily. “I also wonder…” her eyes rested on Hermione scornfully, “what has gone wrong.” 

Hermione had a horrible feeling that Druella could see right through her. But she knew the feeling wasn’t rational. She looked back at her calmly, and said in an offhanded tone, “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” 

“Sorry that we have to put you in a different room this time,” said Lucretia when she walked Hermione and Alphard upstairs. “We’re renovating the west wing.” 

“Renovating?” Asked Alphard, “what for?” 

Lucretia sighed, “I’ll tell you later. Here.” 

They entered Hermione’s room. It wasn’t as large as her room back in Rosier Park, but it was rather comfortable, connected with a nice lady’s boudoir and a bathroom.

“You can see the garden from the windows here,” said Lucretia, tilting her head to the mullioned windows. The shutters were open and the dark, luxuriantly green curtains were pulled aside. “Pity that nothing has bloomed yet.” 

“That’s lovely,” said Hermione. “Thank you, Lu.” 

“Come to my room after you’re dressed, dear. I’ll ask my elf to do your hair,” Lucretia patted her affectionately on the hand. “Oh, I almost forgot. You left some of clothes the last time you stayed here. I had them cleaned and dried. You’ll find them in your wardrobe.” 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Hermione, and Lucretia smiled at her. 

“All right,” she turned to Alphard. “I’ll show you to your room. It’s just down the same corridor. Hermione, do you wish to come and have a look?” 

“I’m knackered,” she said.

“See you in a bit then,” said Alphard, bending down and left a kiss on her cheek naturally, in a manner that he’d been doing this quite regularly for a while. 

Lucretia, if not already shocked by their friendliness, was now thunderstruck. 

“Are we leaving or are we going to continue staring?” Alphard asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“Oh yes. Right,” stammered Lucretia, still wide-eyed. “Yes. Let’s go.”

With the door closed behind them Hermione was finally left alone. 

Feeling subdued and spent, she collapsed into her bed. The coverlet was blue. Lucretia had been considerate. Not that she cared about the colour, but she appreciated the way Lucretia went into such details for her while she had a huge house to run. It wasn’t an easy job.

Arcturus Black, Lucretia’s father, had been largely absent since his wife passed.

“I fear he's mentally ill,” Alphard told her before. “They might tell you he’s in London for business, but he’s gambling and drinking with a bunch of scavengers and low lives. They pretend to be his friends but all they want is to squeeze him dry." 

Hermione would feel bad for Lucretia if she didn’t have a worse problem to worry about at the moment.

After a few deep breaths, she managed to clear her mind, and got up from the soft mattress most reluctantly. She dragged her feet towards her wardrobe. She found, in surprise, that her luggage was already unpacked. All her clothes were hung or folded nicely.

Hermione pulled one set of winter robes from the hanger. She didn’t remember packing this. It was left here by Hermione Starr. They were thick and soft. The fur, smooth and luxuriantly black, lined the collar and the sleeves. 

Somehow, as if she was compelled to do so, she buried her nose into the fur and sniffed it. Though faint and stale, it smelled of the sweet fragrance of Azalea. She felt haunted by a nonexistent ghost. Her shadow. Her memory. 

A sickness came up from the pit of her stomach and she retched. She was standing in her room, enjoying the hospitality from her family, wearing her clothes, using and playing games with _her men_. Cleopatra, the smart spaniel, barked at her in madness. What did she know? Can people extract thoughts from dogs?

Shoving the robes back into the wardrobe, Hermione ran towards the bathroom, dropped onto the floor and vomited. Then she turned on the water and washed her mouth and face. She panted in front of the mirror, counting to ten, waiting for herself to calm down.

She wiped the cold tears off her face and straightened up. Her reflection in the mirror was thin, pale and shaken, but she held her head high and her eyes were resolute. She wasn’t defeated. Not yet.

She headed back to the bedroom to change for dinner. 

It was dim and cold outside. The rain was getting heavier, lashing against the windows consistently. It was going to be a very long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - no Tom this chapter. He’ll be back very soon!


	13. Eldershore Revisited - Part 2

Hermione looked at her reflection in the mirror, trying not to frown. Hermione Starr did look like herself. _A lot._ Especially in these periwinkle-blue dress robes she was wearing. 

Lucretia’s house-elf twisted her hair to the back elegantly and fixed them in place with sparkling sapphire hairpins. Starr’s hair was curly rather than frizzy and wild. She missed her own hair.

The door was flung open and Druella strolled in, tossing two sets of dress robes - one was creamy yellow and one was emerald green - into Lucretia’s bed. She looked tall and queenly in that crimson silk dress with black ribbons flowing down from both her shoulders. Her short, wavy blonde hair was parted on one side stylishly like a film star.

“Orion’s back,” she complained, dropping into a settee and crossing her long legs. “He brought Cygnus and Walburga. I can hear Walburga’s voice from a mile away.” 

“I know you invited someone. You haven’t told me who it is,” Lucretia said absently, putting on a pair of pearl ear studs in front of a full-body mirror. Her black hair was fixed neatly in a bun behind her neck. She was shorter than Hermione and Druella, and curvier.

“Just a friend,” Druella said airily, lighting up a cigarette with her wand. “He should arrive soon.” 

“Well which friend?” Asked Lucretia crisply, picking up a small round perfume bottle and dabbed the glass stick swiftly on her wrists.

Druella got back on her feet and walked towards the window. The rain was pouring down from the darkened evening sky. 

“It’s Tom,” said Druella, looking outside into the darkness. 

Lucretia dropped the perfume to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud; she didn’t bother to pick it up.

“Oh don’t look so shocked, for God’s sake,” said Druella impatiently, lifting the cigarette back to her lips. “He’s been here many times-” 

“Yes, but today’s family dinner!” Lucretia began hotly and then came to an abrupt stop. She cast a worrisome glance at Hermione.

“You have got to be joking,” said Hermione sharply, staring at Druella.

“He’s still my friend. Get over it,” replied Druella. “It’s not like he actually murdered you, is it?” 

“What a thing to say, Dru,” cried Lucretia, her face had gone pale, “what a thing to say!” 

“And how do you expect Tom and Alphard to eat at the same table without killing each other?” fumed Hermione. 

“They’ve been eating at the same table for the past six years in Hogwarts, haven’t they?”said Druella coldly, a bit agitated.

Hermione looked down at her own hands, trying not to appear too angry.

“Tom’s right to break up with you. It’s better for everybody,” said Druella. Without looking up, Hermione could feel that Druella’s gaze was still fixed on her. Her voice sounded pragmatic, void of emotions. “You are better off with Alphard. You’d make a fine couple. Dreadfully dull. But you’ll be fine.” 

Hermione’s eyes darted up when she noticed just a tinge of mock in Druella’s tone.

Nobody said anything when they walked downstairs together. Hermione was in a reverie. Druella was sulking; Lucretia looked pale and almost neurotic. But as soon they entered the drawing room, delightful smiles lit up their faces as if an invisible hand just wiped the real emotions from their faces. 

Druella and Lucretia glided across the room gracefully, exchanging greetings and pleasantries with the guests. Hermione took a glass of sparkling wine from the tray Belby was holding; Orion and Cygnus smiled at her. Abraxas Malfoy raised his glass with a courteous smile on his lips. 

Tom Riddle, impeccably dressed in black robes, stood in front of the large marble mantlepiece and greeted Druella with a most charming bow. Druella took his arm and chuckled at something he said. Hermione cast a look towards Cygnus. He seemed completely fine with the close friendship between Tom and his fiancée. 

Hermione didn’t get a chance to speak with Alphard alone. There were too many people in the room. Dinner began after twenty minutes, and they went into the dining room together. Lucretia led the way, chatting lively with Abraxas. 

The table was set beautifully. Alphard sat on Hermione’s right, and Orion sat on her left. The first course was handed; everybody was talking about the weather.

“We don’t stay in London in July except Papa,” said Walburga in her loud, sturdy voice. “He’s a city person, you see.” 

“Uncle Pollux?” Laughed Orion, “He’s a myth, really. It went over ninety degrees last summer and still, he refused to come here.” 

The first course was scallops. Belby, the butler, handed the dishes with a footman. The food was delicious, but Hermione wasn’t in a mood to enjoy. Alphard had been sullen and silent. Hermione kept glancing at him, but he wasn’t speaking to anybody.

“It must be hard to maintain the driveway,” drawled Abraxas.

“It’s a menace,” grunted Arcturus. He already finished his glass of port and gestured to Belby for more. Lucretia shot him a worried look, but didn’t say anything. 

The plates were cleared away, and the second course was handed. Perfectly cooked Lamb chops with hazelnut crumble and roasted root vegetables. The conversation on the table droned on. Hermione glanced up during intervals of eating, and noticed that Tom was smiling at Druella, listening to her with rapt attention. 

“Have you decided which property to buy, Al?” Asked Orion. 

Alphard put down his glass and dabbed his mouth with the napkin before he spoke. “I have a few options in mind,” he said stiffly. “I’m not in a hurry.” 

“Well, you have plenty of time,” said Orion matter-of-factly. “I haven’t congratulated you both, have I?” 

Hermione smiled at him. Orion raised a glass at her and Alphard. “To your health.” He said. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, and took a sip from her glass. The ruby port tasted smooth and exquisite. 

Alphard did not touch his glass. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Orion picked up his knife and fork again, and shot a sharp look at Alphard. 

“You know what it is,” said Alphard. 

“Are you mad with me?” 

“Yes,” said Alphard coldly. “But I’m trying to show you some respect since it’s your fucking house.” 

“Huh, I can see that,” chuckled Orion. Then he lowered his voice and leaned over. Hermione sat back to her chair so that Orion could speak to Alphard more directly. “Come on. You know it’s Druella’s idea to invite him. It’ll be rude to turn him away.” 

“After what he did last year, you think it is _rude_ to turn him away?” 

“I don’t like that fellow either, but I do business with him. Act like an adult, for fuck’s sake,” said Orion. “Hermione took a few drops of poison by mistake. It was nobody’s fault. Just an accident. Unless…” he paused, there was an imploring look in his face, “there’s something else I don’t know?” 

“There’s nothing else to know,” said Hermione immediately. 

“No. I don’t think so,” Orion’s thin lips curved into a smile. “You should hear the rumours. God. They’re outrageous! An entire cauldron of the draught of living death? Anybody with some common sense would know there’s no way you’d survive that.” 

Hermione let out a dry chuckle, and raised her glass to hide her uneasiness. “Quite,” she said. “How very ridiculous.” 

“Well, Al,” said Orion silkily. “Don’t be a git. Just tolerate him for my sake, all right? Tomorrow morning he’s gone, if that makes you feel any better.” 

Alphard downed the wine in his glass with a few large gulps.

“Hey,” said Hermione, putting a hand on his arm gently, “take it easy.” 

Alphard freed his arm from her without a word. Then he glanced back at Belby darkly, and asked for another glass.

Hermione looked back into her plate sullenly. 

Orion looked away, pretending he did not notice this moment of tension between them. 

Their plates were cleared away again; soufflé and fruit bowl were served. It didn’t take them long to finish the dessert. And when Lucretia put down her fork and pushed back the chair, everybody else followed. They headed back to the drawing room. Belby brought coffee, cheese and biscuits. 

Hermione and Alphard sat on a long brown sofa. Walburga was prattling about her wedding details at the end of July. The conversation bored Hermione out of her wits. She only pretended to listen and nod from time to time politely. Compared with what flowers to order for Walburga’s wedding, she was more concerned with Alphard’s growing sullenness. 

“You’ll be away in July, aren’t you, Al?” Asked Lucretia casually. She was sitting on the other side of Alphard. 

“Yes,” said Alphard. “They want to send me to France for two months.” 

“Department of Magical Transportation, if I’m not quite mistaken?” 

“That’s right. Excuse me.” 

“Where are you going?” Asked Hermione. 

“Need a smoke,” he said simply. And then he left. 

Lucretia looked at him with a light frown. Hermione knew that she had something on her mind, but she didn’t say anything. Thank Merlin. 

“Hermione will live with us in July,” said Walburga loudly. “Mama has loads of things to teach her.” 

“Oh God,” said Orion. “I’m only glad I wasn't a woman.” 

He laughed, so did Walburga. Then the Blacks went on bitching about the tedious details of their summer plans and their problems with house-elves. “You must allow us to send you at least three house-elves when you and Al marry,” Orion told Hermione. “And you can borrow our gardener. I know how much you love our garden.” 

“Yes,” said Hermione, forcing a smile. “Of course.” 

Hermione looked down at her coffee and stirred it again. It was getting harder and harder for her to remain seated with this group of people. 

“How many times do you whip your elf every week in Rosier Park, Hermione?” Asked Walburga, cackling.

Hermione put down her coffee with a clank and got back to her feet. 

“What’s the matter?” Asked Lucretia. 

“I’m not feeling very well,” said Hermione. “I should like to go back to my room.” 

“Let me take you,” said Lucretia. 

“Oh no,” said Hermione. “Thank you, Lu. I don’t want to trouble you. Good night.” 

Before Lucreita could say anything else, she left the room. The cold dimness in the hall soothed her nerves. She went up the marble stairs, and crossed the the gallery. The portraits of Black ancestors stared with sternly in silence. 

At the far end of the gallery, a pair of heavy oak doors were left ajar. Warm, orange firelight poured out from the crack. Hermione glanced inside curiously before she went up another flight of stairs, and to her surprise, she saw a wall full of books. 

Unable to stop herself, she pushed through the oak doors. She found herself entering a large, deep library paneled with dark woods. Her low-heeled pumps didn’t make a sound as she stepped on the thick green carpets on the floor. Books, lining on the walls, reached the ceiling; in front of the cheerful fire there was a set of green sofas with silver claws. 

There was an old, quiet smell about the room - musty old books, new parchment, and for some reasons, freshly mown grass. She looked around in amazement, the irritation and suffocation that had been building up in her chest had dissipated. She felt relaxed, content. She could finally breathe again. 

She walked up towards the shelves, and ran her fingers along the books. Soon her attention was caught by _Hogwarts, A History._ It was a different edition that the one she was familiar with. She pulled the book out, wandered back towards the green sofas in front of the fire. 

It was hot near the fire, so she shrugged off her dress robes. She was wearing a flowing, silver organdy dress with sheer sleeves underneath.

Her eyes were fixated on the book and did not look at the sofa before she sat down on it. And when she realized that she did not sit down on leather, but a human body, she sprung away with a short scream and dropped the book. 

She turned around and stared - Tom Riddle was lying on the sofa in a languid fashion in a white waistcoat, black trousers and shiny oxfords. 

“What’re you doing here?” She asked irritably. 

He raised an eyebrow, and sat up. Then he crossed his legs, with one ankle on top of a knee. 

“I’m resting,” he said, amused. “Am I invisible to you?”

She picked up the book from the floor. “I wasn’t looking. It’s one of my favorite books,” she said simply. It might be better if she just took the book back to her room and read in bed. 

“You can stay,” he said. “I’m on my way out.” 

Hermione hesitated for a second. Reading by the fire in a deep, large library was too attempting. Then she sat down at the other end of the sofa, and opened the book. 

“I wonder what drove you here?” He asked.

“I thought you’re on your way out,” she replied sharply. 

“Sick of your future in-laws already?” He mocked. 

Hermione slammed the book shut and stood up. “I’m leaving,” she said coldly.

“I want to apologize to you about our last encounter,” he said quietly. Hermione was just about to pick up her dress robes but this caught her by surprise. She paused to look at him, perplexed. 

He caught her eyes and smiled. The firelight danced on his face, making the sharp, defined angles on his handsome face softer than usual. There was still a hint of boyishness on the corner of his red, full lips. 

Hermione pulled her thoughts away from studying his face. She had no idea why she was even doing that. 

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he said, in an almost sincere tone. It was hard to believe, but his look was sincere too. “Do you know where I grew up?” 

Hermione nodded. Her throat felt dry. 

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t share that knowledge with others.” He said.

“I wasn’t going to,” she said quickly. 

He glanced up at her. “Why?” He asked.

“You didn’t choose the circumstances you were born into,” she said simply, avoiding his eyes.

He didn’t speak at once. Slowly he rose, and walked towards her. 

She took a step back, and then another, until she was perching at the back of the sofa. There was no way to back any further. The book fell out of her hands again, tumbling to the carpet.

“I don’t understand you,” he said in a low voice. He was so close to her that Hermione could feel the heat radiating from his body. “You hate me with a passion, and yet you choose not to humiliate me when you can.”

“It’s called human decency, in case you haven’t heard of it.” 

”How admirable,” he mocked, then he said sternly, “You shouldn’t have come here.” 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” 

“I warned you that you have enemies. Do you ever listen?” 

“I also have friends,” she said. 

“Friends?” 

“Alphard knows,” she said boldly. It wouldn’t make any difference if she told him. “He’s helping me.” 

He didn’t seem too surprised, “I suspected you’d tell him. But let me be forthright with you. Do you really think he wants to let you go?” 

She gulped nervously.

“Tell me,” he said. “What is the most important quality to seek in an ally?” 

“Trust.”

“Whatever trust means,” he sneered. “No. It is not trust you should count on in times of dire needs. It is common interest.” 

She stared at him.

“You might be charmed by Alphard, but he is not your best choice to gain what you want,” he continued in a sharp voice. “Can’t you see? He does not want you gone. He wants you to settle in, meet his family, become his wife. But you’re no caged bird, are you? There’re so many things about you that a mediocre mind like his can never understand.” 

“Are you suggesting that you understand me better?” 

“Yes. On an intellectual level. I have no interest of getting personal with you.” He said coldly. “What matters is that we both want the same thing. You want to go back to wherever you come from, and I want you out of my way. My offer still stands. And I ask you to reconsider it.” 

“If you want me out of your way, you could just kill me.” She said calmly. “What’s stopping you?” 

He reached out and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. “What’re you doin-” She shrieked when he pulled her into him. Her face was just a breath away from her. 

“Look at me,” he commanded. 

“What-”

She met his eyes. His invasion was fast and powerful. The room dissolved in front of her eyes. She tumbled into her consciousness with a free fall. 

But it felt different with the last time he did it. There was no pain. The presence of him inside of her head felt gentle. And he was guiding her down an unfamiliar path in a dark wilderness with shimmering light balls around her.

 _Oh God._ She realized that he was doing - he was taking her down the lane of _his_ memory. 

White swirls of fog rose from her feet and danced around her, forming into solid colours and details of a room. It felt like a medical tent. There were many shelves full of herbs and potions. There was a boy lying on the bottom of a bunker bed, his black robes were half burned, and blood was oozing out from under his shirt. 

It was Tom. 

Two girls rushed in. Hermione gasped because they were Hermione Starr and Druella. She also recognized the highly polished door they just walked through. It was the Room of Requirement. 

“Tom, Tom,” cried Starr, “are you alright? I brought Druella, like you asked...” 

“Get out of my way and shut up,” snapped Druella, shoving Starr aside. 

Druella knelt down in front of Tom, and cut open his robes with a severing charm. The wound on his abdomen was horrific. More blood gushed out, soaking the mattress beneath him. 

With a thud, Hermione Starr fainted on the floor. 

“Useless fuckwit,” said Druella. And then she hurried towards the shelves, fumbled with the bottles and vials and gathered what she needed efficiently.

Druella moved her wand above Tom’s wound in precise, intricate patterns and muttered long, complicated incantations in Runes. Hermione could tell that she was a very good healer. And an experienced one. Perhaps it wasn’t the first time she did this for Tom. 

Finally, Druella cleaned Tom’s wound, and applied the essence of dittany to stop the bleeding. 

Tom opened his eyes slowly with a groan. 

Druella opened a vial with her blood-stained hand and held it to his mouth. “Here, drink up,” she said. “It's a blood replenish potion.” 

Tom drank the potion, and then fell back on the pillows. His face was white as a sheet. 

“What exactly happened?” Asked Druella anxiously. 

“I was ambushed,” said Tom. “Someone tipped the Ministry.” 

“Who could it be?” Druella gasped. 

“This operation is only known to three people. You, me, and Orion.” 

“Orion? How is it possible? He invested his own money in it!” 

“He has a notoriously big mouth after a few glasses of firewhiskey,” Said Tom. He closed his eyes, looking extremely tired. “Who did he drink with in the past week?” 

“Oh God,” Druella sat back on the floor, her lips trembled. “Alphard?” 

“It is him,” said Tom.

“Fuck,” said Druella. “What do we do?” 

“Perhaps it is time to let her go,” Tom tilted his head towards Hermione Starr, who was lying on the floor. 

“I don’t understand -”

“I’m only alive today because of her. She found out what Alphard was doing, and sent me the warning just a few seconds before the Aurors arrived.”

Druella looked at Tom blankly. She had lost the ability to talk.

“I owe her a life debt now,” said Tom. “My previous plan with her cannot continue anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Asked Druella in a shaking voice. 

“I cannot hurt her,” he said quietly. “I physically cannot.” 

“But...” 

Druella’s voice fainted. The dream dissolved around her into patches of colours. She was back on that shimmering, dark lane of memories, and she was walking backwards, all the way back into her own head. 

She blinked. The first thing she saw were his dark eyes. They were still standing together in the library, their bodies pressed tightly together. Her hands - she had no idea when it happened - were clutching to his shoulders tightly. 

“You owe her a life debt?” She croaked, too shocked to move a muscle. 

His long, thick eyelashes trembled.

“Yes,” he muttered. “I wonder…” He bent down his head and whispered into her ear, with a hint of despair in his voice. “I wonder if this is why I cannot hurt you either. Salazar knows I want to, but I can’t. Do you really think you could throw me out of the window if I could use my full power against you?” 

There was a strange conflict in his eyes that contorted his face. 

Hermione looked at him, utterly astounded.

The room was in absolute silence; she could hear their erratic breaths. There was something shaking in his eyes. Something fragile. Beautiful. Breathtaking. 

And then the grandpa clock in the room struck, breaking the magic in the air. They both looked up, startled and confused.

“Now,” he said briskly, pulling away from her. “Will you reconsider my offer?” 

He looked at her, waiting for an answer. 

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ll reconsider it.” 

“You’re created by black magic. Only black magic can send you back.” He said coldly. “Those are the ways that Dumbledore wouldn’t want to risk. Remember you were trying to find out the specific steps to perform necromancy? You’re on the right track. But with my knowledge and help, you’ll progress a lot faster. I’m talking about saving you years of futile efforts. Have I made myself perfectly clear?” 

“Perfectly,” she said. 

“Then make your decision fast. I’m running out of patience.” 

“I’ll take as much time as I need,” she glared. “You’re in no position to threaten me.” 

“Why is that?” He said menacingly. 

“Because...” She smiled a serene smile, her eyes were bright and incisive. “You are at my mercy just as much as I am at yours.” 

He blinked.

“Might I confirm that it is still your wish to leave?” he asked darkly.

“Of course. As much fun as it seems for me to stay and torture you, I have to get back to my own life.”

”Good. Just make sure you keep your words,” he said gloomily. 

Then he turned on his heels, opened the door and left the library.

Hermione sat alone by the fire for a few more minutes before she slowly got up and walked out. 

“Hermione?” Said a voice from the main stairs. It was Lucretia. “I thought you went up to your room.” 

“I was in the library,” she said. 

“Right,” said Lucretia, a bit harassed. “Can you come down for a second and give me a hand? Alphard is sloshed.”

Hermione hurried downstairs with Lucretia, and found Alphard in the dining room with three bottles of firewhiskey in front of him, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

“Should I leave him to you?” Asked Lucretia, “but if you two are still having troubles, I don’t mind getting him back to bed. He came here to get drunk at least two dozen times last year when you were…” her voice faltered, “sorry. I didn’t mean to mention it.” 

“It’s all right,” said Hermione. “I got him.” 

Lucretia shot her a grateful look. With a weary face, Lucretia walked out, and closed the door behind her. 

Hermione drew a shaky breath, and walked towards Alphard. She sat down in a chair next to him, and leaned in to take the cigarette away from his hand. 

He frowned at her. “What’s the matter?” He muttered thickly. 

“It’s getting late,” she wheedled. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get some sleep?” 

He chuckled, and looked at her with bleary eyes. “Are you worried about me?” 

“I am,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re going to drink yourself to death.” 

“But I’m not quite drunk,” he smiled, in a strange, sad daze. “Not quite.” 

Hermione spent at least another ten minutes to drag Alphard out of the dining room, and took him upstairs. She walked him back into his room, and lit up the candles.

“You can shower tomorrow morning,” said Hermione. “But you can’t sleep in these clothes.” 

It was the first time she was ever in his personal space. A drunk Alphard was mostly silent, and very obedient to do whatever she told him to do. After Hermione pulled out a set of pyjamas from a dresser, he went into the bathroom and changed into them. Then he came out of the bathroom, and collapsed into his bed. 

Hermione tucked him in. She felt exhausted. The conversation with Tom was still hovering in her head, and she needed time and space to think about it carefully.

She looked at Alphard and sighed. Her feelings were extremely complicated. She did not love him as a lover, for sure. She should never allow herself to fall in love with, or get attached to anybody in this world to which she did not belong. But she did care about him. As a friend, perhaps. How else could she explain why it pained her so much to see him like this?

She was just about to get up and leave when he suddenly caught her wrist and pulled her down.

”Ow,” she winced, “what is it?” 

His grip at her wrist tightened. His grey eyes fluttered open, and looked at her with a boldness she had never seen in him when he was sober. 

“Stay,” he said hoarsely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the new characters I added! 
> 
> Just a quick note in case you might wonder who is Druella: Druella Black (nee Rosier) is the mother of Bellatrix, Narcissa and Andromeda. In this fic, Druella is one of the first members of Tom's inner circle.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!


	14. The Writing on the Wall

_“Stay.”_

His voice was light as a feather. 

She bit the inside of her lower lip, looking at him in silence. 

“Hermione,” he mumbled thickly. “I’ve been in love with you since forever.” 

Her throat tightened. 

“But you were heartless. You were always so cruel to me,” he went on. A tear rolled down his cheek slowly. “I’m so happy that you’re kind to me now. That’s the only thing that matters to me. I don’t even care who you are. I can’t let you go. Not another time. It will kill me,” he growled gruffly, “don’t you see? It will _kill me_.”

He fell silent, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. 

A cold realization swept all over her and her mind went utterly blank - He wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to Hermione Starr. He was and always had been, though secretly, in love with Starr. 

It also explained why he hated Riddle with such a passion, and why he thought Starr should rot in hell for betraying him.

There were also other traces that she did not pay attention to- after realizing that she was different, his first reaction wasn’t to find out why, like a normal person would. Instead he expressed his affection for her as fast as he could, trying to win her over. 

But he did show interest in her life as Hermione Granger. Was that genuine? Or he simply did not care which personality she carry, as long as she could fall in love with him?

Perhaps he didn’t even know himself. 

Meanwhile, she thought bitterly, Tom had never for a moment thought of her as Starr. The _irony._ He had been quite frank with her right from the beginning. Even fifty years later he had not learned to shut up about his evil plans. 

“I have to go,” she said drily, trying to remain calm. Her head was throbbing with pain. “You should get some rest.”

She pulled her wrist out of his grip and left. 

***

When Hermione headed down for breakfast the next morning, Lucretia was sitting alone in the dining room, eating at the long table with a pile of letters in front of her. 

“Morning,” she looked up and smiled brightly. Her black hair was made into a single braid. Her apple green hair ribbon matched the colour of her blouse. 

“Morning,” said Hermione. “Where’s everybody?” 

“The men are out hunting. Druella went too,” Lucretia shrugged.

“Where’s Walburga?” 

“Back in London. She’ll be back for lunch,” said Lucretia, peeling an orange. She had nearly finished her breakfast.

Hermione was surprised by the amount of breakfast in the room. Coffee and hot dishes were on the sideboard. There was tea, piping hot, in a great silver urn. There were dishes of scrambling egg, crispy bacon, and fish. Boiled eggs were kept in their own special heater. And porridge, in a silver porringer. On another sideboard, there were ham and cold bacon. On the table there were scones, croissants, toasts, and various pots of jam, marmalade, honey; while dessert dishes and fruits piled up high at the end. 

It seemed so strange that Lucretia, who only had the appetite of a bird, was sitting in front of the food enough to feed a family of three for a week all by herself. All she ate was a boiled egg and an orange. What was going to happen to the rest of the food? Shoved into the bin? Why did the house-elves have to do so much unnecessary work? 

Hermione wanted to ask, but she was too tired to bother. 

This feeling scared her. 

She had to remind herself all the time that she was Starr, not Granger. _Lying to yourself too many times, you’d end up believing it._ God. What was happening to her? 

She was simply too tired. And overwhelmed. That was all. 

She helped herself with some toast, eggs, and tea, and sat down next to Lucretia. 

“How’s Al today?” Lucretia asked wryly. 

Hermione dropped a sugar cube into her tea and stirred the tea with a silver spoon. “I haven’t seen him yet,” said Hermione quickly. 

“Oh,” said Lucretia, eying Hermione with a bit of curiosity. “I assumed you…never mind.” 

Hermione put down the tea spoon and drank some tea. 

“But you know it’s nothing to be frowned upon, right?” Said Lucretia. “You two have been engaged for a year.” 

“Lucretia,” Hermione said. “Can we not talk about it?” 

“Why? You used to tell me everything. What changed?” 

“Sorry,” Hermione said. Shit. She shouldn’t let her emotions take over. “I’m just a bit tired.” 

“Well,” said Lucretia. She did not seem mad or suspicious. Thank God. “I’d never lecture you. You know that. But I know who you were with in the library last night...”

Hermione looked up in surprise. 

“You’re not still seeing Tom, are you?” Asked Lucretia with a little frown. 

“Of course not,” said Hermione immediately. “I ran into him, and we talked for a bit. That was all.”

“You’ll have to be more careful,” said Lucretia frankly. 

Hermione chewed on her toast, and remained silent. 

“You must understand, my dear,” said Lucretia in a cautious tone, “that most people like us are not happy or satisfied in their marriages. It is rather an unspoken tradition that we all, at one point or another, seek privacy with companies that might not be deemed as appropriate in society.” 

Hermione looked up at her. She was not shocked or embarrassed like an innocent girl. She was just surprised - and found it quite funny - that while the rest of the wizarding world was at a bloody war against Grindelwald, the British pureblood society was largely concerned about gobshite like this. Oh for the love of Morgana's tits!

“This is why they all come to Eldershore every summer," continued Lucretia, "because I have a knack in making arrangements with extreme discretion.” 

“You mean you help people cheat?” Hermione asked. 

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Lucretia let out a chuckle. “People want privacy for all sorts of reasons. I arrange things for people, and I don’t ask questions.” 

“And you do this for everybody?”

“Only for those from a certain circle. I have a very exclusive clientele. It’s not like I put advertisements on Witch Weekly. People will only hear about this if they have the right connection.” 

“Do you charge them?” 

“A great deal,” Lucretia let out a little smile. “But for you, my dear, it’ll be free. Don’t even argue with me. I won’t hear of it.” 

”I’ll keep that on my mind,” said Hermione a bit sarcastically.

"Anyway, the next time you need some time alone with Riddle, you let me know. Just don’t meet him like last night anymore, in a house full of guests. It’s not wise for a young woman in your position. If Alphard, his parents or your uncle find out, things could get ugly.”

“I wasn’t meeting him for -” began Hermione irritably. 

“Oh don’t be silly, my dear. Like I said, I don’t ask questions,” smiled Lucretia, gathering the letters from her tray. “I better go now. You can entertain yourself for a few hours, will you?” 

“Sure,” said Hermione. “I wonder if I can use your fireplace if I want to go somewhere?” 

“Of course,” said Lucretia. “You can use the fireplace in the drawing room. You’ll find the floo power in a jar on the mantelpiece.” 

***

When Hermione walked out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, she pulled on the hood of her cloak and covered half of her face. She quickly left the pub and entered Diagon Alley. It was a cloudy day in London. The air felt stifled and damp. It might rain soon. 

She quickly made her way to Gringotts. The goblin at the counter looked down upon her sternly. 

Hermione pulled back her hood. 

“Ah, Miss Starr,” the goblin recognized her and grinned an ugly grin. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

“I'd like to check my visiting record,” said Hermione. "Last time I visited my vault, I took something out. I want to know what it is.” 

“You don’t remember?” The goblin gaped at her. 

“No,” said Hermione sharply. “And I don’t need to explain to you why.” 

“Certainly, certainly,” muttered the goblin. “Would you mind if I check your wand?” 

Hermione pulled out her wand and left it on the counter. The goblin picked it up with his long fingers, examined it carefully and then handed it back to her. 

“If you could just give me a second, ma’am,” he said. And then jumped off his chair. 

After a few minutes, he resurfaced behind the counter with a huge leather-covered book. He flipped it backwards, muttering to himself, and then - 

“Ah,” he said, pointing at a page with a long finger. “Right here. You visited your vault on October 25th, 1943, with the company of a Mr. Tom Riddle.” 

“Great,” she said. “I want to know what I took.” 

The goblin looked down the book and frowned. 

“Nothing,” he said, a bit confused. “You took nothing, according to the record. How curious. I have no recollection of this visit at all. It was…foggy. I should remember all my customers and their visits…” 

“I want you to do an inventory check for me,” said Hermione briskly. “You have a list of all the items that were ever checked into my vault, correct?” 

“Correct,” said the goblin.

“Check every single item on the list and find out if _anything_ is missing,” said Hermione. 

“That, of course,” said the goblin silkily, “will come with a small amount of service fee.” 

“Withdraw from my account.” 

“If you would sign some forms for me,” replied the goblin. “I’ll write to you when it’s done.” 

“Thank you." 

"Should I also write to inform Mr. Riddle?"

“No!" said Hermione immediately. "Nobody should hear a word that I came today to check my vault. Is that clear?" 

The goblin grimaced. "Yes, ma'am," he said, narrowing his beady eyes at Hermione questionably. 

Hermione ignored him. "I’ll be expecting your letter," she said. "Good day.” 

***

It was almost lunch time when she returned to Eldershore. The drawing room was empty when she stepped out of the fireplace. She only had time to go upstairs and get changed before she heard noises from the front yard. 

She hurried to the window and looked outside. A group of people, all in their riding clothes, rode back in a clamour. For a moment the front yard was filled with laughters and talking voices and barks from the hunting dogs. 

“Druella shot the deer!” Someone yelled, and the crowd cheered. She heard Lucretia’s laughter. 

Druella, dressed all in crimson, dismounted the horse with the help of Cygnus. Orion, Alphard and Abraxas went up the steps and went into the house together. 

Hermione felt a little bit edgy, so she called an elf to her room and asked for a small glass of brandy. 

She went back to sit down in front of the vanity. She finished the brandy hastily. The alcohol kicked in. Perhaps she drank too fast with an empty stomach. 

She let out a sigh, picked up an ivory brush and began brushing her hair. 

She heard footsteps from outside first, and then someone knocked on her door. “Come in,” she said. The door was opened and strode in Alphard. She looked back, still sitting in front of the mirror, with a necklace in her hands. 

“Glad to see you bright and breezy after a hangover,” she said. 

“Don’t tease me,” he grinned, coming forward and showed her a bunch of bluebells. “Look what I found in the woods,” he said, bending over behind her and presented the flowers to her. She chuckled. 

“Thanks,” she said, handing him the necklace. “Can you help me with this?” 

She pulled her hair to the front of her shoulder. “Sure,” Alphard said. He took her necklace, and put it on for her.

And then, instead of leaving, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. He smelled like forest ground. 

“Alphard,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, trying to pull him away. “Quit mucking about. We should head down soon-”

He pressed on her mouth. He seemed exceptionally eager and bold today; he deepened the kiss and slipped a hand into her waist. 

It was the alcohol. And the stress that had been piling up on top of her in the past three months. It just felt so good to touch and taste someone. She let out a soft groan and gave up thinking. 

When she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back, he froze at first. Then he scooped her up, carried her across the room, and threw her into her bed. Hermione landed without much dignity. And the next second he was on top of her, pushing her back into the mattress.

She gasped for air, and he took the opportunity to invade deeper into her mouth.

He pushed between her legs. Her dress was shoved up to her thighs, and she felt his hard erection through the tweed of his trousers; he still had his riding boots on, staining her coverlet with mud everywhere. 

“Alphard-” She began. 

“Don’t talk,” he whispered. Black hair fell on his forehead messily. “Not a word.” 

He grabbed both her wrists with one hand and lifted them above her head. She gasped when he unbuttoned her dress and pulled it down from her shoulders. Her bra, in white lace and silk, was exposed in front of his eyes.

Hermione inhaled sharply when his lips touched her nipple. The tip of his tongue felt soft and moist.

He pushed in harder, grinding his hot, hard erection against her. 

Her entire body tensed when his hand moved down and touched the damp, sticky cotton material of her knickers. He continued to kiss her, harshly and desperately.

 _Knock knock knock._ Someone rapped on the door hastily. 

They stopped, Alphard looked up with an angry face. “God I hate my family,” he said, and then he shouted at the door, “who is it?” 

“Al?” said Lucretia’s voice, a bit surprised. “What’re you doing in there?”

“Do I need a reason to be in Hermione’s room?” He answered irritably.

Hermione drew away from him, and pulled her dress back to her shoulders. 

“Can I come in?” Asked Lucretia. 

“No!” shouted Hermione.

Someone laughed. It was a man’s voice. “This is getting interesting,” chuckled Abraxas. Hermione had no earthly clue what the hell he was doing here. 

“I’m just wondering when you two are going to come down,” said Lucretia. “We’re all waiting for you.” 

“Just give us one minute,” said Hermione.

“Are you sure? Is that how long Alphard can last?” Smirked Abraxas, his voice was trembling because he was trying not to laugh. “Ow!” 

He yelped. It sounded like Lucretia hit him somewhere. 

“Get lost, you!” Snapped Lucretia, “and shut up!” 

Their footsteps receded. Hermione and Alphard exchanged a look with each other, and they began to laugh. 

“I should go to the bathroom,” said Hermione, scrambling out of the bed. He sat up at the edge of her bed, fixing his tie. 

“Hey,” he caught her hand and pulled her into his lap, and brushed the hair of her face gently, “come here for a second."

She looked at him. 

“Should we talk about what happened?” He asked.

“Later." 

“Ok.”

Hermione went downstairs ten minutes later with Alphard. Abraxas shot her a devious smile, and she glared back.

He lifted an eyebrow, a bit surprised. 

They lunched together with a party smaller than last night. Arcturus Black wasn’t here. Lucretia said he was eating in his club in London. Tom was gone as well.

Thankfully, Abraxas had the decency not to question or joke about Hermione and Alphard over lunch. But after they left the dining room and headed towards the sunlit meadow behind the house for a walk, Abraxas caught up with her, and grinned a mean grin at her. 

“So,” he said, lighting up a cigarette, “you two finally sealed the deal?” 

“Keep your big nose out of other people’s business,” said Hermione coldly. “What about yourself? Are you officially a Riddle’s minion now? Last time we spoke, I was under the impression that you hated him.” 

“Keep _your_ big nose out of other people’s business,” replied Abraxas smoothly. “One might wonder if you care about Tom more than you should.” 

“Piss off,” snapped Hermione. 

Abraxas chuckled, shook his head and strode off. 

***

“I’ll see you again very soon,” promised Lucretia when she sent them off on Sunday afternoon. “Have a good rest of the term, and don’t forget to write!” 

“I won’t forget,” said Hermione, kissing her on the cheeks. “Thank you for the weekend, Lu.” 

“Bye,” said Lucretia with a warm smile, hugging Alphard as well. “Take care, both of you.” 

She waved at them when the Thestral carriage drove down the winding, narrow driveway among the sinister dark woods.

They boarded the train at the small country station. Alphard sat next to her. When the train began to move, he put an arm around her naturally and bent down his head to kiss her. 

Hermione turned her face away. 

“What’s the matter?” Asked Alphard. 

“You said something when you were drunk,” said Hermione, a bit stiffly. 

“What did I say?” 

“You don’t remember?” said Hermione sharply. 

“No,” Alphard looked confused. “I hope I didn’t say anything stupid.”

Hermione let out a long sigh, and then turned back to look at him in the eyes. “Who are you in love with, Alphard?” She asked. 

“What?” He said, rather taken aback.

“Are you ever going to tell me that you were in love with her?” she said.

He looked at her, eyes widened. “What? How do you…”

“You told me. You thought I was her.” 

“Oh for the love of Merlin…” he let go of her and hit his head with both hands. “But…I’m so sorry. I don’t mean…fuck!” 

He threw his head on the back of his seat and stared at the ceiling. 

“I suppose you’re pretty mad at me now,” he said. 

“Oh don’t be dramatic,” said Hermione coolly. “Let’s handle this maturely.” 

“All right,” he seemed relieved. “It doesn’t mean anything, really-”

“No, Alphard, I don’t think you understand it properly,” she said. “I am a different person. Your love for her blinds you. Had we met in a different life, it could be a completely different story. But here we are, trapped in this most peculiar situation.”

“But I do love you,” he said, “I do.” 

“I don’t think you know the difference between me and her,” she said. 

There was a long silence from him. She looked out of the window. 

“Anyway,” she said, with a muffled voice. “I told you from the beginning that I’m going to leave very soon. I’m not going to stay. You know it.” 

“Hermione,” said Alphard. “Look at me.” 

She did. His face was white as a ghost. 

“I love you. Isn’t that enough? Why does it matter to you so much that I used to love her?” He said. 

“We’re talking, but we’re not really communicating, Alphard,” she said, feeling helpless and strained. “Why can’t you get it? I’m not supposed to be here. I am Hermione Granger. You think you’re in love with me, but you’re not -”

“Excuse me -” he cut her off hotly.

“You think I am a changed version of her that you can finally get along with! You transferred your unrequited love to me the second we met. It isn’t real. It’s just your imagination-”

“Don’t tell me that I don’t know what I feel!” He shouted, slamming a fist into the table angrily.

Hermione jumped in her seat. She had never seen him getting angry like this. 

He looked away from her, seething. His lips were pressed into a line. 

“What do you want, Al?” Hermione said, in a little voice. “What do you really want from me?” 

He looked back at her with a hardened expression.

“I want you to stay,” he said adamantly. “Forget about your previous life. I don’t care why you have to go back. I want you to love me, marry me, and spend your entire fucking life with me. That’s what I want!”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, and drew a long, shaky breath. 

“You’re being quite unreasonable,” She said. 

“I should say the same about you,” he shot back. 

“Don’t fall in love with me, ” Hermione said. “Once I figure out how to leave, I will leave. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“And there is no way you’ll stay for me?” 

“No,” she said resolutely.

“But I thought…” he shook his head in disbelief, and raised his voice, “you kissed me back! You…you wanted me!” 

“Yes. I wanted you at that moment. But that doesn’t mean you are the only thing that matters in my life! I have other priorities to worry about!”

"So you're saying you have other priorities before me. Plural?" 

"Well yes! I've only known you for four months. What d'you expect?" 

“You are just as wicked as her!” He shouted, “perhaps you just make up this entire story of you being another person so that-” 

“ _What the_ -” 

“- you can play with my feelings? Is that so very amusing to you?!” He roared. 

She looked out of the window again, trying to control her anger and not to punch him in the face. 

“Thank you,” he said coldly, “for making it perfectly clear to me.”

“I made it perfectly clear from the beginning,” she retorted sharply. “You chose not to listen. Don’t you put this on me now.”

He shook open the newspaper, and didn’t say another word for the rest of their trip. 

The walk from Hogsmeade back to Hogwarts was a torture. Alphard was cold as a stone. Hermione had never seen his anger side. An angry Alphard was definitely not a pleasant person. And she was furious with him as well.

When they reached the Great Hall, he went straight to the Slytherin table without a word.

She cast a quick glance around. Tom was no where to be seen. 

Hermione felt terrible. This weekend at Eldershore had drained her mentally. But she wasn't going to act defeated. She went to the Ravenclaw table, found Myrtle and Olive, sat down with them and ate supper.

"Is Alphard coming to sit with us?" Asked Myrtle. 

"No," said Hermione sullenly. "He isn't." 

Olive looked over at the Slytherin table quickly and her eyes lingered on Alphard for a few seconds. Then she looked back at Hermione with a bit of mock in her eyes.

Hermione ignored her. She had long suspected that Olive might have a thing for Alphard. But she wasn't even interested to know. 

"Um," asked Myrtle, "how was your weekend?" 

"Dreadful," said Hermione, pulling a plate of rhubarb pie in front of her.

Olive disappeared before Hermione even finished her first slice of the pie.

Hermione and Myrtle left the Great Hall about half an hour later. Myrtle's prattle about gossip inside of the castle had somehow helped Hermione felt better. She walked up the main staircase with her, and chuckled with her. 

They were on the first floor flight when Felix Rosier hurried down a corridor and bumped into them. His robes were soaked and muddy; his face was scratched badly and his hair was in a mess as if he just survived a battle. 

“What happened to you?” Hermione caught his arms, “hey. Are you ok?” 

Felix looked at her, as if he could not even recognize her. He panted, widening his eyes in terror. He was trying to say something but all he managed to say was utter gibberish.

Myrtle helped Hermione support Felix so he wouldn't fall to the floor. 

“What’s wrong, Felix?” Hermione asked. “Talk to me.” 

“I know better now…”Felix croaked darkly, his eyes hollow and bleary, “I won’t cross you again...I swear...just don’t hurt me...”

”Who do you think you’re talking to, Felix?” Asked Myrtle. 

Suddenly he shoved both Hermione and Myrtle away, and backed off until his skinny body hit the wall. He was shaking all over even though it was a warm late April evening. He looked around in panic, as if he was scared something was coming to get him.

Then he slid to the floor, and slowly lifted a trembling finger into the direction of the dark corridor where he came from.

Hermione headed that way without hesitation. 

"Hermione," Myrtle said, a bit frightened, "I think we should probably get a teacher..."

With heart thumping against her chest, Hermione stopped in front of a wall and looked up. 

She let out a long, horrifying scream. 

"Hermione!" Myrtle shouted, and ran after her. She almost bumped into Hermione in the dimness. And when she saw what was in front of her, she let out a whimper, clapped her mouth with both hands and took a few steps back. 

A little girl, probably a first-year, was lying on the floor lifelessly. Her expression was frozen; she was _petrified._

And behind her, on the cold stone wall between two windows, large red words were painted in blood, dripping and shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches -

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS

HAS BEEN OPENED,

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR,

BEWARE.

A pale shadow, the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw, was lingering above a window sill next to the unconscious girl. Hermione looked at her, and the ghost glared back. Her face was strangely sad, but angry at the same time. 

“Let's go,” Myrtle grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her away in panic. “Let’s get out of here!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some descriptions about Eldershore are borrowed from Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier, one of my top ten favorite books.


	15. The Bargain

There was a deteriorating hollowness in Hermione’s chest as fear clawed into her. She had never been this afraid. Not even when she was being tortured in Malfoy Manor. 

Felix was still sitting by the wall in that corner, shuddering and muttering gibberish like a mental hedgehog. Hermione and Myrtle hurtled down the corridor and then down the main staircase. Hermione was shaking all over; Myrtle was crying and screaming. 

The first person that noticed them was Ignatius Prewett, the Gryffindor prefect. 

“Is everything all right?” He stopped to ask.

“On the first floor-” Myrtle shrieked, pointing up at the staircase. 

“A student’s been attacked -” Hermione panted. 

“There’s writing on the wall in blood-”

“Felix Rosier…I think he’s sick…” 

It was hard for Ignatius to make sense of Hermione and Myrtle’s overlapped voices. But instinctively he knew something was wrong. No need to tell him twice, he headed upstairs, and then ran back to the Great Hall with a pale face to get the teachers. 

More and more students came out of the Great Hall and hovered, whispering among themselves. Fear was spreading in the crowd like sizzling flames. 

“Prefects, please take everybody to their dorms this instant!” Squealed Professor Wildsmith with a handkerchief in hand. “Wilson,” she said to the Head Boy, “will you please fetch Madam Derwent and Professor Dippet? Make haste!” 

The Head Boy dashed away.

Hermione stood at the foot of the stair numbly. People shoved past her. There was a deafening buzz in her ears. She could feel Myrtle’s sweaty palm holding her tightly. Hermione’s fingers were almost broken but she was too numb to feel the pain.

“Ravenclaws!” Shouted Clive Hawkswell. “This way please. Follow me.” 

“Come on,” Hermione urged Myrtle. “Let’s go.” 

Their feet moved mechanically; they were pushed forward by their fellow housemates. Hermione looked over her shoulder, and met Alphard’s eyes over a distance. He was with a bunch of Slytherins, heading back into the dungeon.

Hermione looked away, hurrying upstairs. 

That evening was unbearably long. Every minute dragged when they sat together in the common room, discussing fervently, and waiting for someone to come back and tell them what happened. 

Hermione was more silent than everybody else. She did not participate when Myrtle, Olive, Clive and Adam chattered about their theories and the gossip among the students. 

Sitting alone by the window, away from everybody, she looked out at the dark silhouette of the forest and mountains. The evening sky was dark blue. Clouds hung lowly above the summits, half concealing the shimmering stars. 

She almost jumped to her feet when a gray shadow appeared out there and looked into the Ravenclaw tower. 

“Hey,” she said, pushing open the window.

The ghost frowned at her and turned away. 

“Wait!” Hermione leaned out of the window dangerously and yelled, “Helena! I mean, Miss Ravenclaw!” 

Helena’s ghost paused, and then slowly turned around to look at her. “I was your friend, Hermione, and you stabbed me in the back,” she said in a cold, disappointed voice. “What have you to say?”

“I may have made a grave mistake, but I almost died for it, for what it’s worth!” she said. “Please. You have to give me a chance to make it right.” 

Helena floated in the darkness, glimmering. Her eyes were dark and full of sorrow. “What is done cannot be undone,” she said solemnly. 

“Did I tell him where the diadem is?” Hermione blurted out.

Helena’s face flushed in anger, if it was possible for a ghost. Her pearl white cheeks seemed less transparent now. “I warned you not to fall for his flattery!” She snapped, “How could you be so stupid? So easily beguiled?”

“I don’t remember what I did,”said Hermione. 

Helena frowned, and floated a bit closer. “Did he obliviate you?” She asked. 

“I wouldn’t know,” muttered Hermione. 

“There is a family journal in your father’s vault,” sighed Helena. “It was given to him from his mother. Inside that journal there were precious records from your ancestors, including a few correspondences between my mother and Baron.” 

“Baron?” Hermione said in surprise, “as in…Bloody Baron?” 

“Yes,” said Helena, with a scoff. “He was obsessed with me. After I stole my mother’s diadem and ran away, my mother sent him to come after me.” 

“You ran away with your mother’s diadem? Why?” 

“Because I was jealous. I sought to make myself cleverer, more important than my mother. When I heard Baron, I hid the diadem before he found me.” 

“What happened then?” 

“We had an awful row,” Helena’s voice trembled slightly. “When I refused to return to England with him, he killed me in a fit of rage. And then he killed himself for what he did.” 

Hermione looked at her with widened eyes. 

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she said sincerely, in a sad little voice.

“That family journal that belonged to your father is the only thing, except my own memory, that could lead to the whereabouts of the lost diadem,” Helena said. “It was sealed in a wooden case with magic, and cannot be opened by anyone but a real heir to Ravenclaw. You retrieved it, and handed it to that wretched boy.” 

“In those correspondences between your mother and Baron,” said Hermione, “was the exact hiding location of the diadem mentioned?” 

“No,” said Helena haughtily. “But they knew which forest I lived in.” 

“And where is it?” 

“Albania,” said Helena.

“I don’t think he had the time to travel there yet,” said Hermione. “I’ll stop him.” 

Helena looked at her morosely, and let out an inaudible sigh. “You can’t,” she said. “Nobody can stop the wheel of fate.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The prophecy speaks of the rising of the immortal one,” she said, slowly backing away from the window, “nobody could stop him.” 

“Wait - what prophecy?” Hermione raised her voice.

But Helena was gone, disappearing into the shrouding silence of the night. 

***

It was about half past nine when Professor Wildsmith, head of their house, showed up. She seemed exhausted. 

“The student that was attacked is Hazel McClure, a Gryffindor first-year,” she announced, and caused an immediate stir among the students.

“Is she dead, professor?” A girl asked shrilly. 

“No, Miss O’Riley,” said Wildsmith wearily. “She’s not dead. She is petrified. Madam Derwent is taking care of her now. She will be brought back to life when the Mandrakes are harvested. Meanwhile, we’re conducting a thorough search in the castle tonight. Nobody is allowed to leave the common room and their dorms.” 

“What about classes tomorrow?” Asked Adam.

“The classes will continue, but all the students will be accompanied to their classrooms by prefects or a teacher. Prefects, if you could come to me, I need to have a word with you…” 

Clive Hawkswell went to Wildsmith for instructions. 

Hermione waited until they were done before she approached Wildsmith. 

“Professor,” she asked, “is Felix ok?” 

Wildsmith never liked her. But to Hermione’s surprise, the way the old professor looked at her was almost kind. 

“We sent him to St. Mungo’s,” said Wildsmith. 

“What?” Hermione gasped, “why?” 

“I’m afraid his condition is beyond our hospital wing’s capacity. His parents are being notified as we speak,” said Wildsmith.

Wildsmith left the tower, and all the students burst into talks with their friends. Everybody seemed worried and frightened. 

“Has anybody heard of the chamber of secrets?” Asked Adam.

“Never,” Olive shrugged. She looked rather peaky, and less snarky than usual. 

“Better go get some sleep,” muttered Clive. “I’ve got extra rounds tomorrow.” 

“Good night,” said Hermione. 

***

Nobody slept well that night. Hermione could still hear Olive and Myrtle toss and turn in their beds after midnight. 

She had no idea when she finally drifted asleep. Her sleep was shallow and jumpy as she fell from one dream into another. 

She was in their tent again in Forest of Dean with Harry and Ron. She was putting up wards in the cold…

She was sitting out of the tent, taking the first watch. The radio inside was crackling. Potterwatch was on. She saw the shadows of snatchers in the woods…lingering, and wandering… 

The oak front door opened and she walked into the castle, arm in arm with her date to the Yule Ball. All eyes were on her as she smiled nervously, and walked into the Great Hall.

The band began to play a waltz. It was Autumn Dream by Archibald Joyce. Hermione turned to smile at her date. But it wasn’t Krum. Why? 

She was momentarily stunned when she met the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Tom Riddle.

He led her and circled the dancing floor. Everything else turned into a blur except his handsome face and his gorgeous hair. He was vigorous, youthful, and flawless _._

Then she looked into a mirror and saw their reflection. 

She let out a shrill scream that nobody could hear. 

He was wearing a crown of black thorns. Large drops of blood seeped out of the crown and dripped down his face. And his face was contorted, burned, snake-like. His eyes turned red, and his skin was melting into wax…

He bent down his head and whispered into her ear like a lover.

“You will always be fond of me,” he said sweetly, intimately. “I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” 

Hermione woke up with a sharp gasp and skull-crushing migraine. 

It took her a few minutes to calm down. 

She could still see his flawless, youthful features and his horrid reflection in the mirror. She shivered in the darkness. 

Then she remembered where did she read that line Tom said to her in the dream.

Oh Dorian Gray _._ Another son of a bitch who sold his soul to the devil. 

***

Hermione wasn’t herself the next morning. 

The ceiling of the Great Hall was cloudy and gloomy. She had breakfast quickly, barely noticing what she was eating. And then she headed towards the first class with Myrtle. 

It was Divination with the Slytherins. Professor Goldglass walked into the classroom one minute after the bell rang, and apologized. She looked distraught and sleep-deprived. 

It seemed she wasn’t quite herself as well. With a rushed lecture on dream interpretation, she asked the class to divide into groups of two to work on their dreams. 

“Remember to take notes of your discussion,” said Goldglass, “you’ll need it for your homework this week. And you’re going to pair up with the same partner you had for palmistry.” 

Hermione frowned at this instruction. 

She looked around in the classroom, and found Tom. He was sitting quietly in the back of the class by the window. One of his arms was on the desk and his head was propped on it. It seemed he wasn’t paying any attention to this class at all. 

She made her way towards him, and deliberately smashed her _The Dream Oracle_ on the desk with a plonk. 

Tom lifted his head with a wrinkled face. His wavy, black hair, which was usually neat and tidy, fell on his forehead a bit messily. “What?” He said, looking at her when she dropped into the seat next to him with a pissed face. 

“Rise n’shine, partner.” She snapped. 

He rubbed his eyes with both hands and pushed his hair back, still confused. 

Hermione briefly explained to him what was going on. 

“I forgot to bring my book,” he muttered. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed her book to the middle of the desk. Tom pulled out a new roll of parchment from his bag, along with a quill and a bottle of ink.

“So,” he yawned. “What did you dream about?” 

Hermione began making up random dreams that meant nothing.

“Dream of an owl, or other fowls, means I should beware of flooding in my back yard…it doesn’t make any sense,” Hermione flipped through the book, looking for answers. “What do you think?” 

She cast a glance at him; Tom had fallen asleep again, head dropped on an arm. His mouth was half open. 

Anger flared up and she said, in a menacing tone, “I dreamed of you last night.” 

His eyes fluttered open. “Wh.. _what?_ ”

“We were dancing.” 

He stared at her, and gulped. The lump on his throat rolled up and down. It amused her when the tip of his ears went pink.

“Is that what you fancy?” He asked, with a chortle.

“And you were wearing a crown of thorn and blood.”

“Let’s consult the book for the profuse meaning of your dream then.” He flipped through the pages, “there’s no mentioning of a crown of thorn and blood. Don’t you think that is awfully theatrical?” 

“I think that is pretty idiosyncratic of you,” she bickered. “Your turn. What did you dream about recently?” 

“All right,” he said quietly. “I was walking down a moonlit path in the countryside. The grass was dewy. The air was warm and smelled of summer. There’s no star in the sky.” 

Hermione frowned at him. She wasn’t expecting such a detailed answer. And it seemed he wasn’t lying. 

“Where were you heading?” She asked. 

“A house,” he said pensively. “More like a hovel.” 

“Did you go in?” 

“Yes.” 

“And what did you see?” 

“A dead person on the floor.”

Hermione licked her lips a bit uneasily. “And who was that?”

“It’s different every time.” 

“Every time?” 

“I’ve been having the same dream for months.” 

“Who are these dead people in your dreams?” 

“I should like to keep that part to myself,” he said. 

Hermione checked the book.

“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s nothing about walking on a road and finding a dead body in a hovel. This is too odd, and sinister.” 

He shrugged. “The odd part is how these dreams impact me.” 

“What do you mean?” Hermione looked up from the book with a scowl. 

“When I woke up, I didn’t feel like myself. I felt…sad.” He admitted reluctantly.

“What do you feel sad about?” She asked, surprised by this confession. 

“You wanted to hear my damn dream. Here it is.” He said, agitated. “Stop pestering me.” 

Hermione shook her head. “Does it annoy you so much to express real emotion?”

“Emotion is a weakness,” he said in disdain. “I choose to shut it off.” 

“You can’t shut off your emotions!” 

“You can, if you’re highly skilled with occlumency.”

“Doesn’t it hurt very much? Isn’t it a lot of trouble if you have to go back to your room at the end of every day and torture your own brain?” 

“I can take _a lot of_ pain,” he said darkly. “And yes, it is awfully troublesome. Being mortal is nothing but trouble.”

“But that’s just life -”

“Think about what you can do with your potential if you do not need to waste energy on your feelings and issues. Think about how much more you can achieve with your brain at the full capacity without the disturbance from the hustle and bustle of mortality!” 

“But that is not the way, Tom! That’s not possible. It’s against the nature-”

“Oh for Salazar’s sake, don’t lecture me on nature and balance again. I shall shut off that part of me for good before long. I know a way. And I will do it!” 

“If you’re referring to those dangerous, experimental dark magic, they can make you inhumane!” 

“They will make me _stronger_ ,” he breathed. His nostrils flared. A wild, almost beastly look contorted his features. 

Hermione could not believe she was having this conversation with him. 

“But those magic are highly unstable,” she said sarcastically. “Might I remind you that you could lose something far worse than losing the remaining of your humanity - which I doubt you’ve only got a teaspoonful of?” 

“Such as?” 

“Well,” she said ruefully, “such as your nose.” 

He looked at her, utterly befuddled. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

Hermione snorted, and changed the topic. “Why are you even telling me these?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps it’s because I feel you can understand.” 

“No, I don’t. You’re bloody insane.” 

“Or perhaps I enjoy arguing with you,” he smiled suddenly, and that perfect, fucking charming look on his face dazzled her in close proximity. “I find it…stimulating. The last thing I found stimulating was a saw-scaled viper.” 

She scoffed, "should I take that as a compliment?"

“I’m still waiting for an answer from you,” his voice dipped dangerously low, “about the offer we talked about.” 

“I’m considering.”

“I’m running out of patience,” he said menacingly.

“Then blame yourself. I haven’t had much time to think about it. Given what happened last night.” 

“What are you insinuating?”

“Oh,” Hermione sniggered. “You have no idea?” 

“Not an earthly clue,” he said innocently with a smile. 

“You disgust me.”

He seemed amused. “Dumbledore won’t help you, you know,” he said.

“I’ll have to confirm that myself first, because I don’t trust you,” she said gloomily. “Meanwhile, I have a condition, if you want me to keep considering your offer.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Stop the attacks. I don’t want to see another student hurt.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said politely, his smile unwavering. 

“Do me a favour,” said Hermione maliciously. “Stop insulting my fucking intelligence.” 

“Well, for that, I want something better in exchange. Keep considering isn’t good enough.” 

Great. He was conceding. 

“Name it,” she said. 

He leaned in closer. “I want some private nights with you,” his breath was hot and disturbing, but not as disturbing as his words. “I’ll write Lucretia and she’ll arrange it.” 

Hermione looked up at him in outrage.

"Oh please," he drawled, “I’m not interested in having sex with you. I did it with her already, remember? I have to say she’s not really that-" 

"Then what do you want exactly?" She interjected hotly. 

"Just your delightful company,” he said cunningly.

Hermione knew he must be lying. Obviously, this had to have something to do with his offer. He wanted to send her away, but Hermione did not know if that was just another lie. 

He looked at her as if he was challenging her. Hermione knew that he knew she wasn’t buying the crap he just said. If she said yes, this meant she was getting onboard with him. Well, almost. 

"I want us to meet once a week out of school. On Saturdays. Until end of this term," he said in a placid tone. “If you want me to stop whatever you think I'm doing, this is my final offer. Take it or leave it."

"Or I could just report you to the Headmaster!" 

"Oh but that old fool loves me. By the way, did I admit anything to your face, or have you found any direct evidence that you can use against me in the court of law?"

“I could go get some.” She said from gritted teeth. 

“Good luck with that,” he said. “I promise you that is _never_ going to happen.” 

Hermione glared at him murderously.

"Whatever you think you know is from your other life. Do you want to tell Wizengamot that?” He mocked, “if they found out what you really are, they'd feed you to the dementors first."

“How considerate of you.”

”Is that a yes?”

“You better make sure I don’t stab you to death in your sleep.” She replied angrily. 

He laughed. 

The bell rang, Hermione stormed out of the classroom. 

Hermione did not see Tom again for the rest of the day. 

And the next morning, when the owls came in during breakfast, she received a parcel. She opened it. A sharp dagger in a silver sheath rolled out of the brown paper. 

There was a card in the parcel. “ _Use the sharp end.”_ It read. There was no signature but she knew the hand.

She looked up towards the Slytherin table. Tom was just leaving with his minions. He did not look at her. But she was certain that damnable smile on the corner of his lips deepened a little when he left the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is also updated!


	16. The Cottage

Uncle Graham wrote to Hermione a few days later. He told her that Felix wasn’t well enough to receive visitors. But when he was, which was probably going to be in the summer, he’d take her to visit. 

Hermione was overwhelmed. The attacks might continue. Tom had found out about the diadem because of Starr. Worst of all, her biggest problem remained - she had no idea about how to get the hell out of this place, this time, this body. 

Dumbledore was still in Europe, dealing with Grindelwald, which she had to admit was a much bigger problem than her. She couldn’t blame Dumbledore for prioritizing. 

She had no clue why Tom would suggest them meeting in private. All she cared about was if he’d keep his word, and stop the Basilisk from hurting more people. 

By comparison, if looked at logically and objectively, Alphard’s current mood was the least of her problems now. 

Hermione’s cold war with Alphard stretched out. Neither of them was planning to be the first one to break the ice. She walked past him several times in the Great Hall. They avoided looking at each other.

She wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. It bothered her, because no matter what, Alphard was her friend. But she had so many secrets that she couldn’t tell him. Even if they sit down to have a talk, she wouldn’t know what to say. She’d hate lying to him.

On Wednesday and Thursday evenings she went to the lake for a walk, found an empty spot and screamed into the air like a nutter. 

She scared a Giant Squid, who scurried away and sunk into the water. 

On Friday morning she heard from Lucretia; she sent the instructions about meeting Tom on Saturday. Like she said before, she did not ask questions. 

On Saturday evening, Hermione slipped out of the castle and met an invisible house-elf outside of the wrought iron gates. Lucretia had sent the elf. 

She side-along apparated with the elf. And when her feet landed on solid ground, she looked around in confusion. 

It seemed she was on a moor. A tiny, winding lane cut through the shrubs, leading towards a small red brick cottage with two floors. 

“What is this place?” Hermione asked. It was very windy on the moor. The air was wild and fresh. 

“The Echo Cottage,” replied the elf.

“I thought we’re going to Eldershore.” 

“The Echo Cottage is one of Miss Black’s properties,” said the elf. “Miss Black instructs Dory to bring Mistress Starr here.” 

Hermione wanted to ask Dory where she was, but the elf snapped his fingers and vanished into thin air with a loud crack. 

She cursed under her breath, gathered her courage and walked up to the cottage. She knocked on the door three times. After a few seconds, she heard footsteps. She grabbed her wand when Tom opened the door. 

He was in a black shirt and a pair of grey flannel trousers; the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He glanced behind her quickly, and then said “come in” with a casual tone as if it was just a normal social call.

She stepped in. There was a small but cozy kitchen inside, with a round wooden table in the middle. There was a door at the end of the kitchen. It was open. Hermione looked inside and saw a desk with a mountain of parchment on it. There were many bookshelves on the wall, a fire behind the grate, and a pair of old-fashioned armchairs. 

“Does someone work here?” Hermione asked. 

“It’s my office,” said Tom simply.

“Your office?” Hermione said in surprise. 

“Yes,” he said, with a hand in the pocket of his trousers. “This way.” 

He went upstairs on a flight of narrow wooden stairs. Hermione followed him, and asked, “what is this place, Tom? The elf said it’s Lucretia’s property -”

“It is,” replied Tom. “She leased it to me.” 

Hermione couldn’t be more surprised. 

“What?” she asked, “since when?” 

“Almost a year ago,” said Tom. They had reached the first floor of the cottage. There were two bedrooms. He walked to the one at the further end. The room was quite small, and normal.

“This is my room?” She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes,” he said. “Have some rest. I need to get back to work.” 

He turned around and left Hermione alone. 

She placed her bag on top of the dresser, and sat down on the bed.

She had no idea when she fell asleep. The room was warm and stifled; she had not slept well for a week. The book she was reading dropped to the floor and her head hit the soft, large pillow. It smelled nice. Like new parchment. 

_I’m just going to shut my eyes for one second,_ she thought. And then she passed out. 

It was a deep, dreamless sleep. And when Tom woke her up, she looked up blankly, completely forgotten where she was. 

“Oh,” she said, sitting up, and remembered she was in Echo Cottage. She looked out of the windows. It wasn’t completely dark yet, but the sun was under the horizon and the tall grass on the moor was blown apart. There was a large, pale star in the sky. 

“Supper’s ready,” said Tom simply. 

She followed him downstairs, confused as hell. She sat down at the table, where two plates of steaming hot beef potato stew were already set. He flipped a wand and a jug of pumpkin juice and two glasses flew out of a cabinet. The jug tilted, filled the two glasses, and then settled itself back to the table. 

Hermione looked at him, and found it hard to find the right words to say. 

“Ok,” she finally managed. “What the hell is going on?” 

“We’re eating,” he sat down next to her, and laid down the napkin.

“You are freaking me out.” 

“Why?” He said, taking a glass of pumpkin juice from the air.

The other glass of pumpkin juice hit Hermione on her head gently, and she grabbed it impatiently. 

“You…” she stared, “you cooked?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, picking up a fork. “Dory was here.” 

“Isn’t he Lucretia’s elf?” 

“She let me use him for chores,” said Tom, “it’s included in the lease.”

“So this is like…” she gulped, “your home?” 

“Sort of.” 

“But how do you have the money?” Asked Hermione, “I thought you are on scholarships.” 

“I have a side business.” 

“What sort of business?” 

“You don’t need to know,” he said calmly.

”Fine,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “As if I’m interested. Why don’t you have a taste of my stew first?” 

“I didn’t poison you,” he rolled his eyes too. 

Hermione grabbed his spoon, scooped a generous portion from her stew and shoved it in front of his face. 

“Go on then,” she said. 

He grabbed the spoon and ate the food. 

“Happy now?” He asked.

“Happy,” she scoffed. 

They did not talk much for the rest of the dinner. And when they were done, Tom called “Dory” into the air, and the house-elf appeared. 

“Yes, Master Riddle.” 

“Clean up,” said Tom. “And send some whiskey and soda to my office.” 

“Yes, Master Riddle.” 

“Shall we?” He got back to his feet, and reached out a hand to Hermione. 

Hermione hesitated for a second before she took his hand. He led her through the narrow, dim passage and into his office. It was about the same size with the kitchen. There were so many documents on the desk and on the floor.

The whiskey and sofa Tom asked for was waiting for them on a small table in front of the fire. 

Tom let go of her hand, and they sat down on the pair of armchairs. 

“I didn’t know you and Lucretia are such good friends,” Hermione took up her glass of alcohol, took a small sip and said mockingly. 

“She’s not my friend,” he said quietly. “We’re business partners.” 

She looked up curiously, “the side business you spoke of before?” 

He looked like he regretted to let that piece of information slip. 

“I remember Orion said he’s doing business with you the last time I was at Eldershore,” she said thoughtfully. “So he and Lucretia are both in it with you?” 

“That’s enough,” he said, and took a deep drink from his glass. “I didn’t bring you here so that you can interrogate me.”

Hermione shrugged. 

They sat in silence for a while, and then she asked, “was Starr here with you too?” 

“No,” he said, turning the glass in his hand slowly. “I never brought her here.” 

Hermione looked away into the fire.

“So why am I here exactly?” She put down her glass and asked rather calmly. “Just for bedtime talks?” 

“That, and I was hoping to introduce you to some basic black magic,” he said. 

“Finally, some truths,” she mocked. “But why?” 

“Because without enough exposure to black magic, you’d die during the ritual to send you back,” he said in a plain tone as if he was only explaining to her some common senses.

"But I haven't agreed to -"

"I'd rather to have you start preparing now. It could take months. Do you think it would be easy? The only possible way to send you back is ancient Druid black magic that is meant to overpower and reverse a necromancy ritual. Without previous practice to build up a tolerance, your wouldn’t be able to survive the impact. Your soul would be ripped apart into thousands of pieces and cease to exist!”

Hermione gulped, and said after a pause, "you mean there's a risk if we do it."

"Yes," he said plainly.

"If it could destroy my soul, it would be worse than death." 

"A lot worse." 

"Great," she said coolly.

"Are you not afraid?" He questioned. 

"No," she said simply. "Well, suppose I agree to go with your plan, what sort of dark magic I have to learn?”

“For now, just the basics,” he said. “In black magic, the intent to hurt is crucial. It seems you don’t lack that when you’re with me. _Accio dagger._ ” 

Hermione jumped in her seat when a silver dagger flew out of her pocket. Tom caught it with a hand. 

“It’s a good start,” he smirked, playing that dagger with his long, slender fingers. “Remember you want to hurt me. Remember the hatred.”

She looked at him irritably. 

He scoffed. “Good night,” he said, handing the dagger back to her. 

She took it from his hand. Then without a word, she turned around and ran upstairs. 

She slept quite well that night. Nothing disturbed her. Not even a dream. 

***

The next morning, when she was refreshed and went down to the kitchen, he was already sitting by the table, dressed casually in a grey jumper, reading the latest Daily Prophet. His hair was still damp from shower. There was a cup of tea and a half eaten toast by his hand. 

She paused for a second before she entered the kitchen. It was so weird to see him like this. 

There was a basket of strawberries on the kitchen counter. 

“Where did you get those?” She asked. 

“Lucretia sent them,” he said offhandedly, folding the newspaper to another page. “Have some if you want.”

Hermione perched on the kitchen counter, took a strawberry and ate it. It was extremely fresh and sweet. 

“So,” she asked, taking another strawberry, “that’s everything you want me to learn? To hate?” 

“For now,” he said lazily. “I have a feeling that you’re a natural.” 

She shook her head. But she didn’t say anything. It was too early in the morning to start a fight. 

“Do you still go back to the orphanage on holidays?” She asked casually, changing the subject. 

“I pretend to go back,” he said. She was a bit worried he might flare up again at the mention of his humble origin, but he didn’t. It seemed he was the sort of person who were nicer in the mornings.

“Pretend?” She asked. 

“Dippet needs to know that I’m there, and the school governors.” 

“But it’s not like you still need the scholarship.” 

“No,” he agreed. “But it would be stupid to get unnecessary attention.” 

She didn’t say anything back immediately. Nibbling on a strawberry, she mused. It was the first time he actually looked like a normal teenager with that jumper and wet hair; but Merlin knows what was going on inside of that pretty head of his.

Dumbledore said nothing was set in the stone. But Helena Ravenclaw said the opposite. _The old prophecy speaks of the rise of the immortal one_ , she said. _Nobody could stop him._

With a sigh, she turned around to face the kitchen window. There was a light mist outside on the moors. 

He got up to his feet, came up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her gently. His body pressed against her completely. He felt tall, and broad, and exceptionally warm. 

She tensed in alert.

“How old are you really?” He asked, nuzzling his nose in her neck, “at least tell me that.” 

“Older than you,” she said. 

“Just how much older are you talking about?” 

“A few years,” she gave him a vague answer, and frowned. He would be very stupid to assume she’d fluster and tell him everything. 

He picked up a strawberry from the basket. “Here,” he said. “Have another.” 

Feeling annoyed and revengeful, she turned back and faced him. His eyes fixed on her when the tip of her tongue darted out and licked the strawberry he was holding out to her. She let out a little smile when her pink lips wrapped around the juicy red tip of the fruit. She paused for a second, then began sucking the strawberry slowly while looking at him with her large, warm brown eyes.

He stared at her with lips slightly parted, utterly stunned. 

Suddenly the kitchen felt too small, and suffocating. 

His ears went crimson. 

“Will you just eat that damn thing?” He snapped.

She snorted into a laughter, and ate the strawberry.

He threw away the top green part into the sink. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he reproached angrily. “That was highly inappropriate!” 

“What? Eating a fruit?” She said innocently, but her eyes were goading.

He looked away, flushed deeper. She turned another laughter into cough just in time. 

She walked past him, and shrugged on her robes. “I’m leaving. Thanks for the breakfast.” 

“I’ll see you again next week.” 

“Will you keep your word and stop the attacks?” 

“You’ll find out soon,” he said. He was very cautious about what he says.

Then without warning, he reached forward and left a lingering kiss on her lips.

“You brought this onto yourself,” he hissed.

Hermione looked at him with a bit of mockery when he kissed her. But she didn’t stop him. He lifted a hand to cradle her face, and slid his tongue into her mouth to taste the inside of her lips.

It was so different with their last kiss. He was so gentle and careful, as if he was afraid of breaking something. And when he pulled away, there was something confusing in his eyes.

Wasn’t he full of riddles. 

“Good bye, Tom,” she said coldly, and turned the door knob. 

***

The next month passed without another attack. Soon it was nearing the end of the term. Summer was here, but all the students had fallen under the shadows of final exams. 

Hermione spent every Saturday evening with Tom in his cottage. Except the weirdness of the entire arrangement, everything else was bearable. Tom was much less of a jerk in his cottage, for some mysterious reasons.

They always had dinner together, and then sat in his office by the fire for an hour or two before saying good night and go upstairs. They debated over stuff, bickered about almost everything. He had a way of annoying her, driving her to the edge of screaming and murdering him. Perhaps that was the point. 

She asked him once why exactly would he want to help her go back. 

“I already told you,” he said. “I’d like to see you gone. And since I owe you a life debt, I cannot hurt you, so.” He shrugged. 

“Is it because you feel I’m a threat?” 

“I wouldn’t say that. You’re a liability.” 

And before Hermione could ask what did he mean by liability, he ended the conversation and went upstairs. 

On mornings, he’d be calmer and less sadistic. Or he was just softer when he wasn’t fully awake.

She liked to flirt with him out of her own vindictiveness. There was no harm in flirting. It was fun to watch him fall under her power and squirm. 

But he was getting better and starting to get less flustered.

The kissing incident didn’t happen again. Thank Merlin. He had practiced on his self control. 

There was a strange, surreal quality about those mornings in the Echo Cottage.

Sometimes when she stood in front of the kitchen counter, making a cup of tea, he’d come up from behind and hold her. And she’d let him. They’d fall silent, looking out of the window into the early summer mist on the Yorkshire moor. 

Those moments were short. They felt like a haze, warm, soft, completely detached from reality. After a minute or two, they’d break off, and went on with the breakfast. 

She had no idea why he’d do that. Didn’t he bring her here so that she could practice hating people on him?

But he was a perpetual enigma. In a way she had given up trying to understand him. She had a muggle uncle who was a DI. He told her once that in his line of work, he’d given up trying to understand human mind. “You’d never know what a person’s capable of,” he used to say. 

They had never spoken of that kiss, or those moments in silence. 

And when she saw him back in Hogwarts, he was back to his usual cold, arrogant, bastard self. And she’d be completely indifferent towards him as well. That Tom Riddle she saw in the cottage might as well be her imagination. 

***

It was a gamble. But Tom had kept his word. No more attacks happened. 

Hermione did not feel truly relaxed until their final exam was over and they were on their way to board Hogwarts Express, heading back to London. 

Hermione sat in the same compartment with Myrtle, and could not stop smiling the entire way. She was so glad that she lived.

When they were about ten minutes away from King’s Cross, Alphard appeared out of their compartment and knocked on it. 

God it was awkward. Hermione only glanced up at him and then looked away. They had not spoken for an entire month. She wondered if he’d ever speak to her again. 

“Um,” said Myrtle, “I’m just going to - I’ve got a thing…um, to do.” 

She fled the compartment and left them alone. 

Alphard walked in, closed the door, and sat down on the seat opposite to her. The few seconds of silence between them felt long and agonizing. 

“Did you get letters from my mum?” He finally said something. He sounded oddly polite. 

“Yes,” said Hermione quickly. Her voice was polite too. “She expects us both at Grimmauld Place today.” 

He nodded, and looked at his own hands at the table. 

“I’ve given it a lot of thoughts recently,” he said, still in that awfully polite and calm voice. “It is time that you and I have to make a choice.” 

“Alphard -”

“Please let me finish first,” he said. “I’ve done some extensive research in the past month. I know that dark rituals such as necromancy cannot be reversed. Do you ever plan to tell me that?” 

Hermione let out a sigh. 

“I told you before don’t take me for an imbecile,” he said. There was a hint of anger behind his bright grey eyes, but he was suppressing it, and did not show any emotions in his voice. “Even if you do figure out how to leave, which is remotely likely, it’s not going to happen soon. It will take years. It seems to me you have two options.” 

“And what are they?” 

“If you still wish to leave, we’ll have to end our relationship. I don’t know if you’re fully aware of the consequences of breaking up an engagement between families like ours. It would be a disaster, and hard to get through, practically speaking. Allow me to break the engagement from my end. I’ll tell them it is because of me. And you’re not at fault.” 

Hermione stared at him, trying to absorb the information.

“I will come into the full sum of my inheritance in July," he continued. "After that, if I break up the engagement, they could not take that money away from me. They’ll still kick me out of the family and the society, and burn my career in the Ministry, but I can handle that.”

“But-”

“No. Please don’t object. This is non-negotiable. If we’re going down that road, this is the only way. You do not have much inheritance as mine, and as a woman - forgive me - it will be harder for you to make it out there on your own if you were discarded by your family.” 

She chewed on her lips. He did not speak when she took a moment to think. 

“And what is the second option?” She asked.

“We marry,” he said.

“What?” 

“Let me lay all the cards on the table, because I don’t want there to be any confusion or miscommunications. I want you. I know you don’t love me the way I hope you do. But love is a volatile thing. With time it can grow. If we marry, I will take very good care of you. I’ll never let any harm come to you. But one one condition - I need you to promise you’ll stay.” 

“Thanks for your honesty,” she said after a pause, a bit hotly. “But you forget. I’m from a time when women are more independent, and men are less assertive and tyrannical in general. You underestimate me if you think I cannot make it out there on my own should the Rosiers disown me. This is not your decision to make alone, Alphard. I don’t want you to suffer just because you want to play chivalry. It’s not fair.” 

He looked out of the window for a moment. His eyes became red. When he spoke again his voice was muffled, and dry. “You don’t have to make the decision now. I’m going to France for work tomorrow. I’ll be back for Orion and Walburga’s wedding at the end of July. We’ll speak again then.” 

“Ok,” she agreed.

They remained silent for a while. 

“We should get ready to go,” he said. “I’ll go get my things and meet you at the platform.” 

He left her compartment. The train was slowing down, moving into King’s Cross. It was full of laughters and chatters from excited students.

Myrtle said goodbye to her with a large smile. "You'll write, Hermione?" She said cheerfully.

"Of course," Hermione smiled back at her, and hugged her tightly. There was a strange sadness in her heart. _Have a good rest of your long, blessed life, girl._ She wanted to say.

Through the steam on the platform, she saw Tom standing a few feet away. He was surrounded by a few Slytherin boys. It looked like they were saying goodbyes. Tom glanced at her, with an offhanded smile. His eyes were modest and charming under the brilliant summer sun. 

" _But you're no caged bird,_ " Tom told her once. She suddenly remembered that rather out of the blue. She was annoyed with herself. Why should she even listen to him? 

She turned around, and left the platform with Alphard. 

12 Grimmauld Place was waiting for her like a cold prison Starr had been sentenced to serve a life's time. Wasn't this what they say? Until death do us apart.

Hermione had a feeling that this summer was going to be quite tumultuous. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s! ❤️
> 
> I was saving this chapter for next weekend, but I just can’t help it. I love their second kiss and today is the day to update it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading as usual :D
> 
> Edit: I updated both chapter 15 & 16 today, just in case some of you might miss the previous chap!


	17. Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: Blood and violence.

Hermione did not hear from Tom anymore since summer started. 

She received a letter from Gringotts, confirming that the invaluable Ravenclaw family journal was missing, but there was no record of it being taken out of her vault. 

She wrote to Lucretia, asking her “if our mutual friend has traveled abroad”. She was worried if he was planning to travel to Albania soon. 

Lucretia quickly wrote back to her and reassured her that “our mutual friend” was still in England. 

Alphard, working an entry-level clerical job at the British Ministry of Magic’s embassy in France, had been writing to her every week with the due diligence of a fiancé. His letters were insipid. He only wrote about his dull routines; there was nothing personal.

Alphard mentioned once that they had to head into the bunker because of Grindelwald and his followers. 

The letters Hermione wrote back were plain and impersonal as well. But they all ended with the same words - _stay safe._

The summer of 1944 was definitely no ordinary time. The muggle’s war was beginning to settle down as the allies landed in Normandy just a few days after Hermione went back to London. Hermione found it gut-wrecking to follow the news, but at the same time it was quite exhilarating to witness such a great historical event. 

It was a miracle that at such a time, the Blacks cared about nothing but stupid tea parties, guest lists and new robes. Hermione’s days at 12 Grimmauld Place were filled with tedious “lessons” from Irma Black. Hermione had found her awful company and the feeling was, unfortunately, quite mutual. 

June flew by. Soon it was near the end of July. 

Hermione read the Daily Prophets every day. With the muggle war and a wizarding war raging on at the same time, the Minister of Magic and the muggle’s Prime Minister met in person for “unusual amount of times to discuss undisclosed strategies”. 

Pollux Black commented that the Minister’s behavior was “absolutely scandalous”. To consult a muggle for strategies! The audacity! The insolence! 

Hermione tried to play deaf and mute on the dinner parties when a bunch of outrageous pureblood supremacists from the Black’s social circle shouted at each other, swearing at the muggle-friendly Minister and making up ridiculous assassination plans. 

Lucretia was over for dinner a few times, but she didn’t participate in those heated discussions. “There’s a madness running in our family,” she told Hermione once in an oddly dark way. “We’re doomed. Every one of us.” 

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked. 

“Never mind,” she sighed. 

“Do you not believe that pureblood wizards are superior?” Hermione asked in a cautious tone. 

“Of course I do,” said Lucretia with a scoff; she sounded cynical and derisive. “What else are we supposed to believe growing up in families like ours?” 

Her answer wasn’t direct, but only made Hermione more curious. 

“But we’re not going to prevail, you see,” said Lucretia reverently, staring into the dark red liquor inside of her merlot. “Minister Tuft is pro muggle. And she’s a strong character. My father, and your father-in-law to be, they bark worse than bite. We’re losing money. All of us. The new riches are rising. They just took over the British Magic Railway company. The Blacks are out.” 

“The new riches?” 

“Families like the Stuarts and the Gallants. They’ve only become magic folks for no more than two generations, but they know how the financial markets work. They invest in the muggle world, and use the money they made to overtake wizarding industries traditionally owned by pureblood families,” Lucretia explained to Hermione. “We’re on the losing side, but people like my father are too stubborn see it. They are getting mad. A lot of them are. All they want is to regain their old glory. But it’s not going to happen.” 

She took a sip from the merlot, and sighed heavily. 

Hermione sank into her own thoughts and bit her lips. 

Early 20th century marked the decline of the purebloods and the rising of new riches, and as a result, the conflicts were brewing. But a full-blown wizarding war? Nobody could see it coming yet. Not even someone as smart and lucid as Lucretia. The opportunity was getting ripe; what was missing was a leader. A radical who could rile the people up, and capitalize the situation to gain power. 

But there were so many uncertainties. Like Dumbledore said, the second she came back to life, she had set off a new timeline because of the butterfly effect. Nothing in the future was set in the stone. For one thing, she already distracted Tom, didn’t she? The chamber of secrets was closed after the first attack. Myrtle didn’t die. Somehow, he had put her in front of killing muggle borns for God knows why.

***

Hermione read from the Daily Prophet that many magical healers from different countries, including Britain, had gone to the continent voluntarily to join the war. Meanwhile, a lot of injured magical civilians and Aurors were sent to St Mungo’s because they were running out of hospital beds and healers in Europe.

As a result, St Mungo’s was severely short-handed. They were calling wizards and witches to volunteer. The Ministry was providing free nursing training programmes. The only requirement to sign up was that they had to be seventeen years old. 

Hermione wanted to volunteer. It was for a good cause. Besides, she’d do anything to be able to spend less time in this suffocating, toxic house. 

She mentioned it over lunch, and Irma Black exploded. 

“Really, Hermione,” reprimanded Irma sternly, “I don’t understand you! Why would you want to spend your time tending to severed limbs and dying people? That is highly improper for a respected young lady like you who’s going to become a future Mrs. Black!” 

“Those are the people who fought for a better future for all of us-”

“Oh I’m sure we’ll be just fine if Grindelwald took over Britain!” 

“Can we not speak of such unpleasant matters over lunch, my dears?” said Pollux. “I’m afraid it is not very appealing to my appetite.” 

“People are dying!” Hermione could not contain her anger anymore. Her fork dropped on the plate with a loud clunk and everybody looked up at her in surprise. “And all you can worry about is your appetite? How can you be so fucking selfish and stupid?”

Everybody fell silent in the large, cold dining room and stared at her, including the snotty portraits on the wall.

“I beg your pardon?” Said Pollux stiffly, looking extremely offended. 

“You’re going to apologize to Mr. Black -” said Irma.

Hermione dropped her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair with a loud screeching noise. “I don’t think so,” she snapped, “because I’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“Now wait just a minute young lady,” yelled Irma. “I am talking to you! Where do you think you’re going?” 

“Out!” Hermione shouted. Then without looking back, she ran out of the house, slammed the front door shut with an earth-shattering bang. 

She ran at least ten blocks before she slowed down. Having no idea where she was going next, she panted and stopped in a park. 

The boiling anger began to cool down, and panic kicked in. Oh God. What did she just do? 

Rather whimsically, she jumped on a random muggle’s bus. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do. 

Perhaps she could go to St Mungo’s. Hermione had visited Felix many times at the hospital. The first few times, she went with Uncle Graham and his wife Agrippa. She had never seen Druella though. It seemed Druella was always too busy to visit her sick little brother. 

Apparently, the evening when Hazel MacLure was attacked, Felix was obliviated again. And that was it. He went mental. They never found out who did it to him. 

Hermione overheard a conversation between Uncle Graham and Felix’s main healer. The Healer told Graham that he must manage his expectations; they were trying their best, but nobody could tell for sure whether Felix would ever be fully recovered. He had suffered multiple obviation charms, all of which were very powerful. There was a limit of how much fixings a human brain could take. 

Agrippa, Felix’s mother, was growing pale and sickly as days went by. She was never nice to Hermione, but Hermione couldn’t help feeling bad for her. She had seen Agrippa sitting in front of Felix’s bed, holding his hand, talking and singing to him. She refused to go home no matter what her husband said. Finally she passed out due to exhaustion and was ordered to go home by healers. 

It was very hard to watch that. 

Hermione went to visit Felix many times on her own as well. Felix was confused. He did not even know who Hermione was. One time he recognized her; he thought they were both little again and asked her for tea and biscuits. “Like we used to, Hermione.” He grinned at her like a child. 

Hermione jumped off the muggle bus when she was a few blocks away from the street where St Mungo’s was at. She was just walking towards the deserted shop when she saw a vaguely familiar figure by the road curve. He was dressed in muggle’s clothes. When Hermione met his eyes, he opened his mouth in surprise. 

“Miss Starr?” He said immediately, offering her a hand.

Hermione shook his hand hesitantly, but she could not remember who he was. 

“Healer Isowyre,” the man said, smiling at her under that carefully trimmed goatee. Hermione pulled her hand back. She tried not to show her uneasiness. She wasn’t expecting to meet this man at all. 

Healer Isowyre treated her when Starr took the draught of living death, and when she died, he brought her back through a dark ritual of necromancy. Felix saw him walking out of Hermione’s room that night with a bucket of blood. 

And he knew. He knew that the ritual had gone wrong. He knew that she wasn’t Hermione Starr. 

“It’s nice to see you again,” She said politely. “I’m just here to visit Felix.” 

“Is Felix ill?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione. “You don’t know? I thought you work at St Mungo’s.” 

“Oh no,” he let out a dry chuckle. “Not anymore. I was fired a few months back.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione. “I didn’t know.” What was he doing here if he didn’t work here then? 

“It’s all right,” he said kindly. “Well, I’m actually glad that I ran into you. Would you like to have a cup of tea with me in Diagon Alley?” 

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I really can’t -” 

The man took a step forward and placed a hand on her back. Hermione winced, trying to step away instinctively. But he tightened his grip and didn’t let go. “You will go with me, Miss Starr,” he hissed into her ear. “Or you’ll find your little secret not so safe with me.” 

Hermione glared at him angrily, but it seemed she had no other choice. 

They apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. But instead of sitting down for tea, he told her to go upstairs. “My room,” he whispered into her ear. “Now.” 

Hermione gulped uneasily, and gripped her wand inside of her pocket. Deciding that she’d hear what he had to say first, she walked up the squeaky stairs and went upstairs.

They entered a small room at the end of the corridor. Isowyre went in after her, and locked the door with his wand. Hermione turned around to look at him. 

“What do you want?” She asked. 

Isowyre chuckled. Hermione hated the way he leered at her. His bleary blue eyes were unfocused, and bloodshot. She took a step back when he walked towards her. Then he took another step, she pulled her wand from her pocket and pointed at him. 

“That’s close enough,” she said sharply. 

“You see, Miss Starr,” said Isowyre, looking at her with a crooked smile, “ever since I helped out your little situation, I lost my job for no reason at all. And when I came home that day, someone was waiting in the dark, trying to kill me. Have a guess, dove. Who wanted me dead?” 

Hermione stared at him nervously. Then she shook her head, “I don’t know.” 

“Your dear Uncle, sweetheart,” he kept advancing on her. Hermione’s legs bumped into the bed. “Graham Rosier made sure that I lost my job. I begged him, for Merlin’s sake. I begged him to spare me because I wasn’t going to say a word about the ritual. He said he’d let me go if I leave the country. But no, he lied. He sent someone to kill me.” 

“I...” Hermione said, trying to keep her wand steady. “I have no idea.”

His chest was only half an inch away from the tip of her wand now. 

“Oh you know,” he smirked. “Don’t pretend, love. You see, I defeated the assassin your uncle sent, and used an imperius curse to make him go back and tell your uncle that I was dead. I had to live like a sewer rat for the past few months, and now I’m sick of it. I’ve been following you around for a while. You don’t know how happy I was when I saw you left the house alone. I followed you to St Mungo’s. And you were just so easy to persuade.” 

Hermione let out a scream when he suddenly made a lunge at her, knocked her wand out of her hand and pushed her into the bed. 

“What do you want from me?” She screamed. 

“I made a deal with the Ministry of Magic,” he grinned, “they’re generous enough to pardon me for performing the ritual in exchange of your name. They’d even offer me witness protection. I notified the Ministry as soon as I got you in this room. The Aurors are on the way now. They’re going to arrest you, and I shall not live like a scum anymore!"

Hermione struggled desperately. She had to do something. She couldn’t let Isowyre hand her over to the Ministry. There had to be a way…

“Your family treated me like trash!” he yelled, “I wonder what Graham Rosier would feel if he knew I did stuff to his precious niece before the Aurors arrive?” 

He ripped open the front of her blouse. Hermione screamed, trying to get away, but he held her down again and slapped across her face. The pain hit her and set her brain into a buzzing blankness. And then he hit her again on the other side of her face.

Hermione groped around frantically, trying to find her wand. 

“Looking for this?” Isowyre picked up her wand from the floor and broke it in half. 

Hermione froze when she suddenly felt something in her sleeve. It was cold and hard. She looked down in confusion, and her eyes widened when a silver dagger fell into her hand. 

It was the dagger that Tom gave her.

But she did not take it with her. She was pretty sure it was left in her room back in 12 Grimmauld Place, safely locked in her trunk.

“Where did you get that?” Isowyre yelled, waving his wand and shot her a stunner. But Hermione dodged it. Rolling across the bed, she got back to her feet nimbly, making to the window. But Isowyre lunged at her again. 

In a frantic movement of her arm, Hermione brandished the dagger and precisely cut open Isowyre’s throat with a deep, red line. His face froze as if he could not believe what just happened. Blood gushed out of his jugular vein, dripping down his neck. He put a hand over his wound. He tried to say something, but uttered nothing but a wheezing, thready sound.

He staggered forward, and grabbed Hermione. His blood, thick, dark, and smelt of rust, splashed and rained on Hermione’s eyes, nose and mouth. For a moment she couldn’t see or smell anything but blood. Blood. And blood. She did not know a person had _so much_ blood.

She looked at him in the eyes when the last bit of light left him. It was like a dying candle being snuffed out. 

Pure shock paralyzed her. She couldn’t move, and she couldn’t think. She just killed a man. She just fucking killed a man. 

Then she heard hurried steps from outside. Gathering the last bit of her senses, Hermione pushed Isowyre’s body away, climbed out of the window, and rolled down to the street over a low rooftop. 

She ran. Her face was covered in blood and she couldn’t see anything clearly. Her blouse was torn open. She heard people’s screams from everywhere. Curses blasted into the walls behind her. She knew the Aurors were after her. 

There was a dead end in front of her. She tried to disapparate, but the air seemed to have turned into iron barriers. They used wards to stop her from escaping. 

She stopped and looked up at the forget-me-not blue summer sky. This was the end, she thought. There was an odd tranquility in her mind. It was what the final surrender felt like. She was so fucking tired. There was no more fight left in her anymore. She was going to get caught, taken back to the Ministry and be disposed of. There was no hope. There was never hope. 

Suddenly she was grabbed by the arm and pulled into a small side door of a shop. Borgin and Burkes, Hermione only had time to catch a glimpse of the sign of the shop on the window before she was dragged into what seemed like a cellar.

The door was shut. She couldn’t see anything in the sudden darkness. She gasped when her face was smashed into a broad, warm chest as someone held her close. So very close. He smelled familiar. Like grass after rain and new parchment rolls. 

She could feel his heartbeat, thumping against his chest heavily. She could hear his short breaths above her head, and feel his strong, steady arms around her. The people out on the street were still running and shouting; there were sound of explosions. But Hermione felt safe. It confused her.

Slowly, her eyes got used to the semi darkness. She looked up and saw the face of Tom Riddle.

“To...” She said. Immediately he put a hand over her mouth and shook his head with a warning look in his dark eyes. 

Loud, aggressive knocking came from outside. It seemed the Aurors were checking this store. With a squeaking sound and chime of bell, Hermione heard a man’s annoyed voice, “I don’t understand why the Ministry finds necessary to raid my shop again! Do you have a bloody warrant?” 

”No, Mr. Burkes, we’re not here to raid your shop,” said a young man’s sharp and clipped voice. “My name is Bartemius Crouch, DMLE. There was a murder at the Leaky Cauldron and we believe the suspect headed this way. Did you see anything?” 

”No,” barked Mr. Burkes, “now fuck off before you scare away my customers!” 

They heard the Aurors curse at Mr. Burkes, and then moved on to the next shop.

Tom moved his hand away from her mouth, and peered out from a small crack in the wooden door. Then he turned back to look at her. ”What the fuck were you doing?” He asked in a whisper.   
  
Hermione had no idea where to begin. She simply looked at him, and shivered. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked. “You’re covered in blood.” 

She shook her head.

“Here,” he took off his robes and wrapped it around her, and then pulled her back into his arms again. Hermione did not protest. Somehow she did not mind being held tightly by him. “It’s ok,” he said in a low, reassuring voice. “It’s going to be ok.” 

“Tom,” She finally said, “What are you…why are you…” 

“I have some business in this shop,” he said. “And I saw you running down the street. Looks like Crouch is after you. What happened?” 

“I don’t know…” she choked, “I swear to Merlin I did not intend to kill him…” 

“Did you really kill someone?” 

“It’s Healer Isowyre. He was…he was hurting me. He said my uncle tried to kill him. He was going to give me to the Ministry so that they’d protect him…”

Hermione shuddered and her voice faltered. “Shhh,” he said, putting a palm on her swollen face gently. “It’s alright.” 

“I don’t know how,” she whispered, “but the dagger you gave me appeared in my hand. I…” she gulped, “I cut his throat open.” 

There was a pause as she could feel anger was gathering in his eyes. 

“The dagger will appear in your hand when your life is in danger,” said Tom coldly. “It’s a dark item from a batch I imported for Burkes. It will force your enemy bleed to death even you simply cut his finger.” 

Hermione looked at him in shock. 

“Listen to me,” he said in a firm voice. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand? Let’s get you out of here first.” 

“But we can’t apparate. I tried. It seems they’ve locked down the entire area.” 

“That’s not a problem for me,” he said. “Hold on to me.” 

She grabbed both his arms. The darkness consumed her when they were both pressed very hard from all directions. And when their feet hit solid ground again, they were in front of Echo Cottage, Tom’s place on the moors. 

Tom helped her get indoors. When they were in the small kitchen, Tom took off the black robes on her, and cast a scourgify. The blood was gone from her skin, hair and clothes. And then he muttered another quick charm to repair the ripped blouse. 

Hermione sat on the hard kitchen chair, numb and pale.

“Do you want to show me what happened exactly?” He kneeled on the floor with one knee, and looked into her eyes. 

Hermione nodded, and met his eyes. He held her cold hands, and pushed into her mind. He checked her memories from the fight she had with the Blacks over lunch, and then followed her to the muggle street, to the point where she met Isowyre outside of St Mungo’s and went to the Leaky Cauldron. 

He backed out of her memory when Hermione was dragged into the store by himself. 

And when Hermione looked at his face again, his black eyes were cold and mad.

“Your wand,” he said. “Did you leave it in the crime scene?” 

She nodded.

“And your dagger?” 

“I think I dropped that too,” she said. Fear coiled inside of her stomach and she felt like drowning in icy water. 

“I need you to stay here when I head back,” he said assertively. 

“Why? What’re you going to do?” 

“What do you think?” He arched an eyebrow, “I’m going to cover it up for you.”

“But how? I don’t think you’re able to -”

“Have some faith in me, Hermione,” he said in a softer tone, looking at her intently. Then he reached out a hand, brushed a strand of her curls and tucked it behind her ear.

“I suppose you’ve got quite a bit of experience in that,” she said sarcastically in a dry voice. 

He let out a scoff. “Do you regret it?” He asked quietly. 

”Regret what?” 

“Cutting his throat.” 

Hermione paused one second before she shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “I don’t.” She was appalled by how hard and cruel her own voice sounded.

“Good,” he said with a sadistic smile. “Now go get some rest. There’re some potions in the bathroom behind the mirror for bruises. Don’t leave the cottage. Wait for me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the death of the necromancer is a crucial point of this story. This event will change many things. I had some struggle writing this chapter. Hope it delivered well! 
> 
> Thank you for following the story as always!!


	18. Invictus Maneo

The night fell, silently enclosing the moors in its forlorn veil. Hermione sat by the fire in Tom’s office, lost in her reverie, waiting for him to return. It felt like the longest night in her life.

It was after midnight when she finally dozed off, curling up in the warm leather sofa, tangled under a travel cloak that smelled faintly of Tom. She didn’t know how long she slept. Her dreams were shallow, inconsistent, and accompanied by the persistent pattering of raindrops against the window.

“Hermione,” a hoarse voice called. “Hermione, wake up.”

Her eyes fluttered open; for a moment she had no idea where she was. She thought she was in the tent. “Harry?” She muttered, in a daze. “What time is it?”

There was no answer. Slowly her vision focused on a face that obviously wasn’t Harry. She looked up at him, confused, with lips slightly parted. His face, handsome and stoic, was half hidden in the shadows; firelight shimmered in his dark eyes.

She shuddered.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out a hand but not touching her. “It’s just me.”

“Sorry,” she stammered. “I was just…I was having nightmares.”

He shrugged off his robes, and sat down next to her. “What did you dream of?” He asked while taking off the silver cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves to his forearms. He seemed quite tired.

Her eyelashes fluttered swiftly as she looked down, fixing her gaze on his black shirt. It was buttoned up to his throat.

“I dreamed of killing him, slashing his throat open over and over again…” She examined her hands, her voice little but oddly calm. “There was so much blood. I almost scrubbed my skin off in the shower, but I can still smell it on me.”

“How do you feel?” he asked after a pause, in a rather clinical tone.

She looked up at him with a mixture of fear and bewilderment in her eyes. She hesitated.

“You can tell me,” his voice was hoarse, his gaze mesmerizing.

A strange boldness flushed her skin when she said vehemently, “I liked it.” Her eyes glinted. “I liked killing him. I liked watching him die.”

A slight curve - very thin indeed, and barely perceptible - bent one corner of his lips upwards.

“They won’t be able to track the murder back to you,” he said. “I made sure of that.”

“Did you find my wand?”

“Yes, but it was snapped. So I destroyed it. You won’t need it anyway.” 

“But how did you find it before the Aurors?”

“I didn’t. They were there first. I intercepted the Aurors who were taking the evidence back to the Ministry. They didn’t have the chance to file or examine it yet.”

“What did you do to them?”

“They’ll live,” he said a bit offhandedly. 

“An entire team of Aurors were after me,” Hermione hissed, leaning in slightly without realizing it. “You can’t possibly have ambushed them all!”

“But I did,” he said flatly. “I’d blast the entire Ministry if that’s what it takes to make sure of your safety.”

“Then you’d make yourself the most wanted man in this country.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” His breath fell on a strand of her loose hair and her heart skipped a beat. A delicate, but wonderfully shocking tremble rippled through her.

She averted her eyes from him and bit her lower lip involuntarily.

“It’s wrong,” she said.

“Hypocritical,” he replied.

“The dagger,” she said, suddenly remembering it. “What happened to my dagger?”

He extended a hand between them, palm up.

 _“Summonitores.”_ He whispered.

Hermione gasped slightly when a silver blade appeared from thin air and materialized in his palm. It was sharper than she remembered, and shinier. It looked _deadly._

Tendrils of black smoke danced around the blade. And Hermione felt the magic, dark, powerful,and consuming, silently vibrating and radiating from it.

For a moment she couldn’t remove her eyes from his palm. Her fingertips prickled as if she was expecting this power. As if she _knew_ something was about to happen.

_But it is wrong._

“It’s yours,” he murmured. “The blade absorbed blood and now it’s stronger.” 

His hand trailed over her bare neck, her jaw, and her cheek.

She looked at him, frozen, hypnotized by the dark, almost beastly flame in his eyes.

Their lips touched.

They had kissed before. But this time...it was something entirely different. It wasn’t merely a desire of flesh; it wasn’t any power game. She had realized, not without horror, that something profound had changed when she felt a pang of pure joy in her heart.

She could not believe it.

Her eyes closed when she returned the kiss. His lips were soft, warm. He tasted so good as if he was _the one._ Time itself had stopped as the kiss lingered, and deepened. Their tongues touched as he greedily drank from her.

It seemed an eternity had passed when he finally stopped the kiss, pulled away slightly, and looked at her oddly.

Her eyes widened when he suddenly pushed the blade into her chest.

A short gasp escaped her throat.

It was the most peculiar feeling. Being stabbed. At first there was no pain. Sheer shock took over her thoughts and when she looked down, with a pounding sound in her ears and a deafening buzzing in her mind, blood gushed out of her wound and soon soaked her clothes.

She reached out and grasped the fabric of his shirt helplessly.

“Shhh,” he whispered; slowly and intimately, he pushed deeper into her. “It’s all right.” He coaxed gently. “It’s going to be all right.”

A strange coldness spread through her veins and reached all of her limbs. Her breaths grew shallow and uneven, and her heartbeat slowed down. 

“Why?” She croaked.

“I sent Isowyre to kill you,” he whispered into her ear. “Without you murder someone first, this ritual wouldn’t work. If I told you, you’d never do it.”

He started to say a very long, complicated incantation in ancient runes in a cold, steady voice. 

“Tom,” her voice was thready and feeble. “Tom? What’re you doing?”

He held her tighter into his chest. So tight that as if he was pressing her into himself. As if they had become one. 

The incantation continued. His voice grew faster, louder, and strangely high pitched.

“Tom…” She cried, but the sound that left her throat was merely a rasping breath.

_I don’t want to go. I just realised._

_Tom. Your bastard._

_How could you._

_How dare you._

But he looked like an angel. His hair, richly dark and wavy, cast a soft shadow on his face. His eyelashes were thick and long. He was beautiful.

A drop of tear rolled down his cheek silently when the long incantation came to an end. He lowered his head and kissed her again.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Goodbye.”

She let go and fell into the endless darkness.

***

She was gone.

He watched her when lights faded away in her warm brown eyes like dying embers.

He held her body and closed his eyes.

The room dissolved in front of him. He was once again walking down the moonlit lane in Little Hangleton on that warm, nice summer evening. He had just killed the man whose name he bore. He had just killed his past. And he felt great. Don’t we all have _the father_ we wish to kill before we could set off a new journey and find conviction in this long, hard fight?

He got up and walked out into the moors. Into the woods of his future.

He had to leave her behind.

He raised his yew wand and pointed it at the cottage, the place where they shared memories like normal lovers on those warm, misty spring mornings. They did not seem real, and yet they did exist for once in his eternal life of darkness.

 _“Protego Diabolica.”_ He said calmly.

Blue flames shot up, raging up into the sky, encircling and consuming the little cottage.

He walked into the fire. 

The blue flames licked his skin and his hair, but he wasn’t burned. Ancient runes left his lips in a cold, high pitched voice as he chanted, with both hands above his head. He could feel the power of dark magic surging through him, tearing his broken soul violently, forcing a piece into the black gem on the ring on his finger. 

He screamed as he felt his skin begin to melt as the dark power boiled through him. The burn was scorching but he did not care. More, he thought as he roared in the fire and fell on his knees. _I want more pain!_

His skin, melted like wax and distorted his face, slowly came back to what he originally looked like.

But he seemed older. His cheeks seemed hollowed, and his eyes were darker, with a gleam of red at the back. But all of this suited him. He looked more handsome than ever.

Best of all, he felt _indifferent_. He could no longer feel the pain when he thought about the people he had killed, nor feel the struggle when he thought about her. It was gone. That part of him that he so longed to get rid of was _gone_.

Life, as it was stretched out endlessly in front of him now, had never been so starkly clear.

No more shame. No more joy. No more weaknesses. 

His dark eyes gleamed in red. Dark smoke raged around him like a storm when he raised his wand, pointed it into the sky and shouted - 

_Morsmordre!_

He tilted his head back and saw the colossal skull in the blackened, velvety sky.

It was a starless night.

***

On the afternoon of July 27th, 1944, Hermione Starr, aged seventeen, had a fight with Pollux Black and Irma Black, left 12 Grimmauld Place, and never returned.

Meanwhile, there was a murder at the Leaky Cauldron on the same day. Except that the murder victim was once employed by Starr’s uncle Mr. Graham Rosier, the Ministry concluded that these were two separate cases and there were no connections between them. 

After a month’s investigation, the Ministry of Magic declared Hermione Starr missing, and closed her case unless new evidence showed up. 

Alphard Black returned to London the day after Miss Starr’s disappearance. He was spotted in the Ministry in a “clearly devastated state”; he blew up half of the Auror’s office, and used “inappropriate languages” in a fit of rage, calling the Aurors on Starr’s case “incompetent” and “fucking stupid”. He was considered deranged because he brought up groundless accusations against Starr’s fellow student at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle.

For some reasons, Black believed Mr. Riddle must have something to do with it. He wanted the Ministry to look into him, however, due to complete lack of evidence, Mr. Crouch refused Black’s request and ordered him to be stunned and removed from the Ministry.

”The accusation against Mr. Riddle is ridiculous,” Mr. Crouch, a young, promising Auror, told the Daily Prophet later. “Mr. Riddle is the brightest student at Hogwarts. Believe me, I know a dark wizard when I see one. I personally look forward to having Mr. Riddle at the DMLE next year. I’m sure he’d make a great addition to our force.” 

As a result, Black had to face the internal review from the Ministry, go through a hearing, and his position was indefinitely suspended.

The Starr case made headlines on the Daily Prophet in that summer. Witch Weekly caught wind of her “affair” with Tom Riddle before her accident back in December. The journalists tried to interview her friends at Hogwarts. A few, such as Olive Hornby, gladly came forward and gave a ten-page long, obnoxiously detailed interview of Starr’s scandalous character and her depraved personal life.

Miss Hornby was spotted waiting outside of the court of Wizengamot after Alphard Black’s hearing. But Black did not stop and speak to her when he left the court. 

The Rosier and Black families made a joint statement for the press in September.

Alphard Black did not show up. He refused all interview requests, and declined the Ministry when they offered him to return to his post later on.

Ever since July 1944, Alphard Black had lived the life of a hermit. His private life was scarcely known to the public.

He passed away in 1976, and left all of his money to the black sheep of the family Sirius Black. This resulted in the removal of his name from the Black family tree.

He requested an empty grave next to his own. And on the slab the epitaph read -

_Hermione Starr_

_1928 November 23rd ~ disappeared on 1944 July 27th._

_If you ever visit me here in the future, remember fondly that I have always loved you._

_Invictus Maneo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad that I finally reached this point - this is the first chapter that I wrote during the planning of this entire story!
> 
> For those who love Alphard...I'm terribly, terribly sorry. Because this chapter is what I wrote first, Alphard's fate is sealed. I had ZERO clue that he'd turn out to be such a lovely character. He's one of those characters that unexpectedly jump out of a writer's control and take up their own life & voice, you know? 
> 
> I’m a bit depressed right now because killing Al is like killing part of myself. He has grown on me during the journey and I seriously considered changing the entire plot for him. But I couldn’t - the story needs to go the way it was planned. I hate myself so much already. Please be gentle with me 💔
> 
> As you can see from chapter numbers, this isn't the end. Tomione will be endgame. I promise you that. The rest of the story will happen in the future back in Hermione Granger’s timeline. Thank you for reading! 💛


End file.
